Words Are Meant For Daytime

I hate myself, she said
As we lay there in bed,
A bottle of wine gone straight to her head.
So I turned around
And I uttered a sound,
But it didn’t reach her, it just fell to the ground
And sprouted a question, or rather a weed,
Do I shut up, or do I proceed?
Do tell her the things that she wants to hear?
Do press my lips up close to her ear
And whisper sweet nothings that she won’t believe,
She won’t believe because she doesn’t want to believe,
She just wants to see me try and retrieve
The one good thing that we felt
From all the feelings we were dealt.
But that’s gone now and in its place
I see her face,
I see this body that she hates
Balanced before me on a scale of weights.
I see her breasts, her ears, her skin,
I see those goose bumps prickle up again,
I see her cheeks, her neck, her hair,
I see the eyes into which I stare
And I’ve so many words
But none are right
So I’ll leave them with the silence
And drift deep into the night.