He says I’m not the relationship type
because I have cold hands and feet,
the tips of my fingers and toes,
just under the nail,
a purple-blue tint.
A lack of blood flow, a lack of oxygen.
My heart beats to a different tune
opposite of the symphony he composes
for our love.
I’ll admit I can’t feel anything
when I touch him—
my senses numb to his warm affections.
“I love you” tastes like heated
mayonnaise on my tongue.
His kisses fail to thaw my icy lips,
frozen in a pout, unwilling to smile
to his presents and poems.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be the meek
lover you desire of me,
but I don’t need a king to save my heart
and I’m too independent to let a man
be the key to my happiness.