no longer too relevant to me

Object, Seeking Subject

I grow sickened of poetry
I grow sick of fancy
I am sick, sick of growing pale
with love over a young male
I want to be the one doted upon
I want him to grow so wan
I grow tired of letter sending
speaking of a heart never mending
I desire a man to look upon me
and for him to be caught completely
for him to glance, then be paralyzed
for him to be by love surprised
I want sonnets written to my beauty
I want him to think devotion his duty
I want him to treasure my every word
and to be concerning me most absurd
I want him to make excuses obscure
I want me to be his melancholy's sole cure
I shall pretend I am ignorant, artlessly
and decline the offer of his soul heartlessly

I am sick of love and romance
I shall no longer depend on chance
I shall make a poetic fool enamored of me
so that I will receive affection and poetry
and then, to my nature ever true
I shall cruelly cleave his heart in two