This is a Prose Not Wine(un-edited)

This is a love poem
A love poem that has grown old
This is a love poem, not an expensive wine
For this poem has only grown sour with age
So you may say this was a love poem
Before you got a hold of it
And once all is said and done
This is left an Anti-Love poem
Sneering at the springtime
And slicing hearts in half

You’re a dance queen at only age seventeen
With your low cut shirt
And skin tight pants
You’re beating the boys off with a stick
Aren’t you?
You’re an innocent little church girl
Aren’t you?
You wanted to have the bad boy
Didn’t you?
But you bit off more then you could chew
Didn’t you?
How long does it take
To see that you are living a lie
One two years
When did it change
When did this angel with a mohawk
Lose his wings
Or when did you finally see
That there were no fucking wings at all
I can hear you heart race
And you breath change pace
As my lips make it
From your belly to your breasts
I know this will end soon
And not soon enough if you ask me
As I spread my arms out wide
And I fall down to my knees
I can’t tell the difference between the raindrops
And tears of joy
One week, seven days, 168 hours
That’s how long it takes
To put together a broken heart and move on
Or is it just how long it takes to forget
To forget the past two years
To forget the person who saved you from yourself
To forget the truth, or at least ignore it
And live a new fucking lie
Or a new love as you call it
So say to him
The things you swore were for me
And give him your empty I love you
Because I don’t want them anymore
And dance queen of age seventeen
While you were throwing up your meals
And slitting your wrists
I was living my life to the fullest
And loving myself no matter who I am
Did you ever think?
That you would save me
As you put on your long sleeve
Low cut shirt
Show what you want the boys to see
And hiding everything you don’t want people to see
That I would see below the surface
As you pull up you skin tight
Pre-ripped jeans
Did you ever think
This saving angel, was not your FUCKING angel
As I hold this cup of wine to my lips
I can still taste the toxins
Of a dance queen at only age seventeen

This was a love poem
A love poem that has grown old
Beaten down, withered aged, and grown sour
From the toxins
Of a dance queen
In a low cut shirt
And skin tight jeans
At only age seventeen