You put me on SSRIs, and my brain is rotting into functional corrosion-you cauterized my protestant work ethic and thickened my flow into a quasi-productive ebbing of platitudes
and minimal strife. You've made it so that I've had to
make a life not frozen in time;
one a little more promising and a tad less sublime.

I know no warping, wounding words no more,
and it is your fault.
Once I stopped being a doormat, I stopped being beneath you.
So sick that someone so domineering could unlock the same part of me
that setting you straight sent dormant again.

It's dementing that you are a stranger and when I see you,
that throbbing comes flowing through me again and
I'm a little weak in the knees but a whole lot stronger than
when you first saw me lamenting my duplicitous mediocrity.

A darling devoid of action but so replete with words,
even when you sweep me off my feet
I am still stooping beneath you, even though
I know that the chances of you stopping
are relatively low.

Daring as these declarations have been, I dare not
forget to regret. And though my voice my waver thin,
I wish somebody had knocked that damn door in.

And though my voice my waver thin, I wish
somebody had knocked that red door in.