Gold in Marble

It struck me as such a sad thing… 
Why being in love is such a yin and yang,
such a pain and pissant, 
a dissonance of sound and sex 
and somehows.

And here, have a couple of cookies for good measure:
pick your poison and
pick your pleasure. 
“Oh god, I can’t help but eat when I’m nervous,
and now my body will pay the price.”

That’s what you’d say, but it was 'I'
who sculpted you into one of my golden girls. 
And like Michelangelo I can see you in the stone already,
I can see you crystal clear and it makes me feel heady.
Now just hold steady—
(a few more years, a few more pounds)
a cookie or two won’t hurt.
I’m a patient artist, a sympathetic artist. 

Oh, and I just can’t stand it—
the idea that I’d love you more if I’d never 
touched a fucking screen, 
if I lived when everyone wore silly, fucking hats and said things like “you drive me bats!”.
Baby, it kills me that I was dead to sex when I was sixteen. 

And when we’re old I’ll still be chiseling away at the seams,
looking for gold in the marble,
staking my life on your curves, 
making a wife out of something heartfelt—
And there’s the rub:
that a psychopath probably finds murder artful, 
that a junkie might find the high a Da Vinci of feeling, 
that nurture beats nature… 
because I spent my life filled with porn. 
How can someone blame me that I treat women with such scorn?

So put me in an insane asylum with the rest I guess, 
I’ll shove and shit and scream with the best.
Watch me if I don’t.
Shoot me dead if I won’t.
I’ll make a sculpture out of my shit and make it my greatest sexual desire, 
But I’d still be less mad then I was
not to love you as you were.
Pots I should not stir,
but baby darling know that a human inside me does hurt, 
and I’m trying to see past the visions of Her,
but we just have so much history,
her and me. 

Baby, I know that you’re in pain.
You’d be mad if you weren’t.
I know you can’t stand my midnight dates,
I know it’ll be too much one day. 
But for now a simple “I’m sorry” is all I can say.
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