I know I've let my body go and grow so spare me of your incantations,
The slither betwixt your pretty lips saying thoughts of thy own fascination.
Sinew may seep from neath thy skin,
And beauty is abundant in thy face,
But your olive tincture of unknown kin,
Ensures you're not of my Irish race.
My abhorrence for my very self,
Stems from the beauty atop your bones,
Yet I am a handsome Celtic elf,
So in grace I know you're not alone.
I suppose my unrequited love for you,
Is the root of my self-contempt,
I must learn to love myself as I do,
Love you without my intent exempt.