I wipe marker off the board, and
I have a painful tendency of quickly growing bored.
I can't erase the ink-spots lingering
in high-up corners;
to spare the self-defeat, I teach myself how to ignore them.

Ignore the marks, and stains, and pains
pretend I'm wiped clean, all the same
with little left to lose or gain:
I leave them; growth is self-restraint.

Perfection is a non-existent notion,
so they say;
yet, unobtainability is all I can create.
For in my mind, these false ideals make tame desires stray,
and self-destructive pleasure is my antidote to pain.

I think I'm like a little plant
of stunted growth, just seeds to start,
my plantpot made from breaking hearts:
before I grow, I say I can't.

It became a long
and drawn out mess.
You push me back, I'd pull you in
just to counteract the loneliness.

I don't really want you,
I'll confess.
I just want things that I'm not meant to;
the feel of forbidden sweetness.

I will wear a little less,
each time you say no more;
just as you feel like you forget,
you'll smell the smoke beneath your door.