another life lesson came to me today through the bonding of loneliness and public transportation -
a filthy bus stop if there ever was one:
trash, human hair, the smell of ****.
I was standing there in the depths of my loneliness,
despising everyone that passed by,
when I hear the clicking of boots.
they're supporting firm legs and a sharp jacket
opened just enough to see a soft white shirt
falling delicately off *******.
her head is turned away,
hair flowing and dark,
and I think to myself
'I wish I could get a woman like that,
I wish she would give me the time of day, I wish I had a chance.'
she had turned by now:
hazel eyes, cutting eyebrows,
defined lips, strong jaw.
stunning.
and as she steps onto her bus she waves to me,
because we once spent a week together in a hotel in Prague.
and our bodies' desire destroyed that room.
we broke: dishes, shelves, a chair, the bed frame.
they nearly tossed us out.
and the kicker is -
our first night together,
I jokingly told her I was an escort,
and she pulled out her wallet,
and paid me.
so here I was thinking
'this woman is so stunning she's out of my league.'
when in reality,
not only did we tear each other to pieces -
she paid me for it.

The oak tree stretched and twisted
towards a sky trapped
in the hour between dusk and darkness
pink lace across the deepest of blue
wind trembling the leaves
just enough to hear them whisper.
you stood stripped at its base
hand searching across the bark
a taste of wine on your lips
eyes searching the horizon
knowing without a doubt
that I would be yours.

so there they sit,
drawing like idiots,
without a care in the world.
drooling, coughing, smiling
laughing, shrieking.
like life is an all you can eat buffet.
the things they have to look forward to:
heartbreak, health insurance, taxes, rent, a tedious
job, a loveless marriage, the death of a loved one - and then their own.
so I walk up to them and break their crayons,
to warn them of the evils of this world,
and they cry.
now they know how the world works.
but then then the pretty blonde waitress brings them another crayon.
they stop wailing, get distracted,
move on.
and I'm bitter because a pretty blonde lady isn't handing me any crayons, or paying my rent, or laying in my bed.
and those kids
never worked at Denny's, got evicted, or got their car stolen.
- they have earned nothing.
and those kids
have never had ***, drank beer, climbed a mountain, or carried their lives in a backpack
- they have lived nothing.
and the waitress hands me my receipt,
and I smirk,
because she scribbled a note on it:

"415-555-3827
call me,
Stacy

PS that was the last crayon."

I bought a mannequin for $65
it was used, just like you.
it has a stain on its chest
where our matching birthmarks lie
two skin toned islands, both yours.
I carried it home on a rainy evening,
like that wine buzzed night we shared,
baked it your favorite cake,
chocolate, dulce de leche, strawberry.
it was vegan, just for you.
I dressed it up in the clothes you left:
yoga pants, leopard print bralette, black scarf.
your parting gifts.
I'm sure it's cold,
I'll put the space heater on high,
like I always did for you.
it doesn't talk much, it just sits
eyes vacant, without breath,
empty.
like you were at the end.
a fine replacement.
it was used,
just like you.

not my finest moment, but one worth examining -
I had a mullet and lived off of Haight st.
she didn't mind my mullet which,
at that time, was about all I could ask for.
we made out in the rain, copulated in bar bathrooms, lay in bed for hours laughing.
she was an explosion of life - a sunflower in the wind.
and beautiful.
(because how many ordinary princesses get poems?)
I thought I was prince charming.
turns out I was the stepmother,
the witch, the wolf.
I turned our bedroom -
where we love, lusted, and lived
- into a dungeon.
because it was the only place I wanted her.
to myself, pleasing me, craving me.
I did everything I could to keep her in that dungeon.
and her eyes glossed over, and she started to die.
I watched her starve.
then one day I unlocked the giant iron door,
swung it back,
and she was gone.
maybe rescued by a prince,
most likely grew wings and flew out on her own.
because I was the villain in my own fairy tale,
hers too.
and this one had a happy ending,
which means,
I lost.

Your eyes stare through my window
the sky dims to a calling crow
my mahogany chest holds whips and chains
I invite you to watch the show

Comprised of three acts:
the binding, the lust, the sin
the sun has set, my guest arrived
it's time the show begin

Her years on earth so few
******* still firm, skin so tender
do your flaws cry with jealousy?
will you joy to watch me end her?

We waltz into the bedroom
prey so innocent through and through
I've drawn the blinds with caution
so you can enjoy the view

Her body takes rope so natural
time slows to let it linger
a leather cuff for each ankle,
a twine for every finger

The binding now complete
are your eyes glued with such thrill?
this beauty's last night of leisure
first pleasure - then the ****

My bite tickles her warm torso
a soft breath brings her to dew
my tongue guides her to fruition
do your fingers, the same, for you?

In bliss she asks for her release
I give my answer - "no"
there's plenty left in the mahogany chest
the last act of the show

To the floor fall whip and dagger
her face to terror with such splendor
a silent scream slips through her teeth
a whimper of surrender

The whip draws blood and flesh
ripped like a child from the womb
our eyes lock as as I raise the dagger
electricity fills the room

Crimson flows from her sweet veins
her heart beat starts to slow
but you see there is an encore;
a fourth act to the show!

With the room now dead in silence
and a witness to my debut
I pull the knife from my lovers side
and point the blade straight at you

Your frantic fingers dial for help
but I've already cut your line
the door frame splinters as I enter
there's a curtain call this time

My swings slice you to pieces
that I tie neatly with a bow
break a leg I did!
good night! the end! the show!

not all poems need to be about love
said the paper to the poet