To My Always Almost Gay Almost Girlfriend (poem)

To my always almost gay almost girlfriend,
the heartbreak of straight, the goodbye to bi.
Julie, you Jew...
...you're a temptresses,
an empty ring.
Promises, promises... 
promising,
everything.
All insurmountable
never accountable.   
A dozen year fling. 
I knew you might've read some of my words but,
did you understand anything?
Will this last final slap 
take out some of the sting?
Since your dew?
Don't do me no justice.
Even when it's just us
it runs more like sap.
Princess Bitchface?
Sounds more like a J.A.P.
Sooo...you got a crack in yo' back?
In East Cleveland, no less?
Well my Princess H-Bomb early bathed in her napalm?--she never settled for less.
She was always best dressed. 
She always knew the boys in the room,
who'd settle for lipstick & doom,
yet so soon as she'd swoon 
be some poon on the floor
they'd slither towards the door.
I had the keys to your apartment but you
let me sleep in my car,
the hour didn't matter 
or how long was far.  
And if I was a man, Julie...
sure, maybe I'd take that blame.
Blast jukebox pain out to you
in the middle of the night rain.
Tell you all my sleepless nights without you
drove me absolutely insane. 
Could've had the world,
meant nothin' if you wasn't my girl. 
But I kept my secret hopes for us,
as false hope in a trust.
A crush that can rust.
Even the nails in the crucifix for Jesus. 
Something about you always just seemed so
insincerely scenarist  
ingenue,  
but I ignored that arsenic
for your sanguine lace.
I saw all that glitter 
about you & all over your face.
Not your trinkets 
for litter. 
Strewn all over the place.
Are you my mother?
Bermuda Triangle,
gone without a single trace or clue.
Are you only as good as I imagined you?
Anyhow,
I only liked
your designer taste.  
Your curtains and drapes?--are forever mismatched on different estates.
If I couldn't ignore, 
I'd tolerate your less desirable traits.
This nice brunette girl?
She forever awaits.
I watched you go on and trapeze-traipsed all your escapades and escapes,
always comparing our staggered gaits to the gates
to find our ah, Mr. Norman E. Bates. 
Julie, you put so many notches in your Queen-sized lipstick case.
Every hue on you was due to be yet another spilled vase. 
We scrimmaged and scuffed all over the place. 
I was the toy goy, go fetch and play chase,
for all your fuckboi playmate play-dates.  
As soon as you'd love me,
would ye not judge me?
And your arbitrary lame game, with its obituary rules...
well, I remember when we drove in the same lane,
Eskimos were the fools.
And it was only the boys
who were your tools.