The Map

Passed down through the days,
the map was now far beyond
moth-eaten
and archaic.

You creased it closed
with folds
instead,
and it caused
some of the smaller roads
to disappear beneath the lines.

Those were the ones
you chose to travel,
when I wasn't looking,
because you knew
I could never follow.

And maybe that was
even the reason
why you folded
instead.

Scrawl

Each scrawled line I write
is my testament and descent
into these darker shades of red.

I could contest the fact
or accept the truth,
but nothing will bring me peace.

A third solution
would be my reparation
with your pretty, little head
mounted on my wall.

But that's just wishful thinking,
I suppose.