Papercut/ August 29, 2011

“You     can           write              me           letters.”

In raisins on the kitchen counter,

You are at work, making an honest living,

I’m washing down your gin and not recycling.

Dirty looks from the cashier at the bar,

Won’t get her far if she’s shopping for a smile,

Mine is out for awhile, ordering pizza with friends

Pretending to be a hairband at the park,

Some girls fall in love with, bend then break

A wishbone in the sandbox for a lucky dog or cat,

I guess that’s that.

So the face I wear isn’t fitted for an ironing table,

Or the spare guest room mattress,

You’re not exactly my choice for an actress,

You’ve got nothing to offer this stranger ,

No raisins left or drinks, go ahead offer him a story,

About the lovers you keep neatly on shelves,

Dust them off on occasion for company,

Heavy with resentment they prefer standing than your lap,

Show him your fingers, the cuts you have from the pages,

How sensitive he’ll find you and agree to spend the night,

You can be the perfect host, a gymnast

But you’ll miss me again, tomorrow

I’ll keep checking the post,

You can write me letters,

As you spread the breakfast  toast,

Working up an appetite.

I will bask in the butter you spread,

All over your imagination,

Change your clothes,

But my mind———————no chance.

Banshee/ August 25, 2011

The tears I shed splintered off

Your shoulders of Ice,

You patted my back like a stranger,

Handing me a newspaper to stand on,

As you hailed your taxi,

Splashing tears back, the color of my skin.

Your heart must have been manufactured

During the war, cocking itself with ease,

Eager to explore the blood or wine,

Served at your table that last supper.

You are sleeping sound in floral prints,

Heart tucked between an armpit and your neck,

I was the wreck that day,

You left smiling like a banshee.

On the beach you pretended to be the sea,

The sun your private property,

Always a cigarette short, but planning months ahead,

You met a man who fixed anything you said,

But grew bored and unamused,

When your ego started to get bruised.

Kicking, shoving making your point,

You move to areas clear of debris, friendships,

There you scan for floating hearts you can chat up,

We meet later on a boat, but your intentions wouldn’t float

You swallowed your drink down like poison, I watched.

Later at the bar you enjoy the music I could tell,

I admit, we all fell under its spell

Only snapshots in the dark remain,

Of your matted fur and murder.