Red Cape, Wet Blanket

I have never for a second wished

To make-believe you don't exist.

What I have wished, oft, instead

Is to force-feed you, fill your head

With this liquid rage that builds

When with thoughts of you I'm filled,

So some space might be emptied out

For plans, for interests—even doubts,

For futures that I cannot know,

For something else inside to grow,

But I had time to self-survey.

It turns out I'm empty, anyway.