Grotesque

I am not a good-looking man
although you always called me handsome
but you also called me yours
and I was, and still am, even if you never meant it
and now my face is lined with worry and regret
my eyes show more luggage than an airport
you liked my words back then
when I wrote the villanelle
and the sonnets and the poetry of love
and now that language is torn
bastardized by distress and ordeal
now an open wound more than a budding bloom
You owned my heart, and still do now
but its erratic beat since the surgery you performed
may no longer be to your liking
you break it you buy it, like the sign says
so it’s yours anyway, to do with as you will
as you always did, yours to cherish or destroy
and you chose that second path
I am not a good-looking man
no beauty on my skin, not like
that preserved rose I gave you once
to treasure, though no doubt now gone
tossed aside, like me, on the bonfire
of your dispassionate execution

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