You told me

in not so many words

that you cannot love me

when you’re hurting

You cannot take an interest

in who or what I am

while licking your own wounds

I look at the smooth chip of skin

placed softly amidst the wrinkles

of my third knuckle

and infer a diagnosis:

Even when I draw blood

not even the feigning of concern

How bored I must be

to tolerate this not-so love

How many years might I wait

for you to notice

Me.