it's in me

she tells me
she's not reading my poetry
anymore.
she's done with it.
this is supposed
to hurt my feelings
i guess.
get in line.
they all say that
at some point, but they
read on
regardless of how much
they despise me
for my lack of attention,
or love,
or regret.
it's all in there, but
i keep it buried. keep
these emotions
locked up.
I've spent it all, it seems.
the tear ducts are dry.
the heart
a soft beat of fatigue.
it's in me, and they know it,
but
like Bukowski's bluebird,
why change course now,
and have people think I've
gone soft.