How Many Times Before?

"You should know how breath taking you are,"
Thanks, man--but I don't want your breath,
and I don't want you to give it to me,
and if you think I'm pretty--
don't tell me in forms of my beauty taking something
from you,

"I wrote this for you, what do you think?"
Your form is brilliant, the rhythm is fantastic
your wit is profound, shiittttt.
I hate that you don't write like this in all of your poems,
I hate that it is about me,
I want you to erase it and write it about your mother,
tear it up, I am starting to hate you--

maybe you're the one taking breaths,
because suddenly my lungs can't sustain flight
my wings are bound and I'm standing here horrified

maybe I wrote this for you because I ran away
before you could turn around to see it was me
maybe I wrote this for you because I feel obligated
to return the favor, of course, this is different
maybe I wrote this for you because you're the same
and it's easy to write a piece I've written

something like
fourteen-fifteen times before.

When you are in motion,
does the sound repeat back to you,
are you aware of your own life?
I don't want to be your form of life.