Don’t make me go to your boyfriend’s shows
anymore.
It’s not just that the music’s bad,
made by a band of posers
or that the lyrical subject matter
has been better covered by earlier artists
like Dr. Seuss and Tweedledumber.

I don’t want to go
to your boyfriend’s show
because of the look in your eye
when the look on his face says he means to be profound.
It’s not passion that’s going through you.
Lust is too small a word.
You seem
engaged
in a way I haven’t seen before
like a beautiful zealot
gazing upon her new god.

You have never seemed that way
in my presence
– ever –
and I don’t believe
I like it.

It’s sad,
how you are,
at the front of his stage:
fanatical,
devoted.
I don’t care for it
so please don’t ask me to go
for if you request it,
I must comply.