Your tears, like heavy rain,
form puddles and fill storm drains
but I won’t stand to see you cry
so let me sing you to sleep
or write you a lulaby,
my Lovely One.
Your memories taste like stale coffee, bare skin, and lost words.
Words like “I love you” are replaced with “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
The aroma is as intoxicating as it is disgusting and absurd.
I walk slowly into your bedroom and see knives;
empty bottle of vodka…dead roses from a dead romance…and knives.
I see an insubordinate amount of silk scarves around,
just in case you need to seductively bind someone to your rickety bed.
I smell ancient smoke from a one-hitter and see
ashes in a lipstick-stained glass. I begin to think your false compassion
is actually a predatory tool to garner the virgin masses
into your bed, sketched like charcoal drawings collected in your head
or simply nameless notches on your bedpost.
Little did I know that you’d like me most of all.
Too bad for you I had my running shoes on
and I was fed fear from birth and drank it down with tears.
You were ready to take my virginity but not the burdens of my years spent
Lost and Confused. You helped me, unwittingly, with my chains stained
with abuse. You left me wandering down your fire escape to my muse…
…she had little to say as I drove back to my place, having lost her innocence long before me, and had treated me like a child ever since. I think I called her, initially, just to throw it in her face…or perhaps to gain her acceptance into the adult, real world…but she had nothing to give me as her legs dangled from her barely-slept-in bed. She was too busy earning that abortion money and playing with matches…wondering why her hands were burned and where she’d left her youth.
I wanted her to be the one that I gave it to…every single thing…but she rejected me completely. And that rejection gave birth to so many things…including my addiction to you…
…the masses of the faceless media gluttons like me. Relieved to read a story not entirely unlike their own…which makes them feel at home, or close…even when the sun sets over a foreign window sill.
"I kissed your split lip the day you said ‘goodbye’
but it meant nothing to you. Lighting that cigarette
was as easy as lighting up my life.
Gunfire and fireflies light up a hollow night in the sticks.
I wish you were here, but know you’re not, and set things right
in my head. You’re gone and dead to me, you said. And I recall,
as I have a vivid memory, that you didn’t dare want to show you cared
as your eyes wandered across the horizon instead of ensnaring me
One Last Time.
And so I’m crying on my groaning front porch as my brothers empty guns into the woodlands. I hold your necklace in my mouth and my own broken heart in my trembling hands. I was just a boy when we met, but now you could hardly say I’m a man. You’ve broken all I had and left me to my rocking chair, thinking that I’ll die of heartbreak. Lucky for me, I have a loaded gun and a bottle of my pal Jack. I won’t be dying of heart-break, I can promise you that much, slut.”
-A Longsuffering Lover