They called us names on the playground.

We were small. Cherubim-faced terrors with bruised knees and perpetually greasy hair.

We dreamed of our lives after college. After our first cars. Our first houses. Our first jobs. Imaginary model wives and spoiled children. The All-American Daydream.

We didn't know what college was. We could barely see over the dashboard on Auntie's old Cadillac.

We grew up.

You became a man. Good-looking, strong, covered in tattoos. Scars on your chest and scars in your head because they called us names on the playground and those curses stuck with you.

Through every needle, every pill and every doctor's visit.

It was worth the pain, you said.

You'd do it all again, you said.

Live through the taunts. Live through the nights spent screaming up at the sky and asking God why He made you that way. Why He didn't make you a he and gave you ******* and hips instead.

They called you names on the playground. They called you something that you never were and never wanted to be.

Now we've outgrown the passing fancies of shiny trucks and four-bedroom houses in quiet suburbia.

Given up a life of apple pie to live between paychecks in a ****** Brooklyn apartment.

You're happy, now.

Happier than you ever were when they called you girl as if that were an insult.

As if they didn't understand the contempt they parroted; spat, hate.

They called you a name.

Then you changed it.

Became it.

Then your name set you free.

Don't call me your sweetheart,
I'm not your sweetie anymore;
your sweetheart left a while ago,
when I walked out that door.

At first, it was just quibbling,
why this, why that, what for?
then it became a battle,
then it became a war.

I just wanted love and kisses,
you wished to be, Top Gun;
what once was two in love,
was no longer any fun.

So I gave you what you wanted,
your freedom and your choice;
I hope that you're contented with,
the sound of your own voice.

So, don't call me your sweetheart,
what we had is void and gone;
and all we have are memories,
like in some old country song.

I conquered every feeiing that ever felt real to me and
knelt at the feet of statues looking for deliverance,

Blood on her wings but an angel flies in and sings to me,
I cling to the tin foil

In the tack room
satin and a whisper of whips.


I unclip from the apron and try to get a game on
But the statues refuse to okay my play.

and she walks like she's sinking
on the brink or is it me thinking it's her thinking it's me?

Montmartre
next stop Kama Sutra
all aboard
tickets please,
fasten your seat belt

It wasn't that at all
It just
felt like it.


But when you start to feel and cease to kneel it all becomes incredible,
I'm a thousand lira nearer to Pisa,
she's a lot closer to me.

That bad dream of a human being
That one that you despise
Who caused you so much pain
The hurt pulsating behind you eyes

That shadow behind a fragmented smile
That terrorizes you,
From the hidden pockets in your mind
For days, for months, for years ...

Thank her, for she's your greatest muse

Do you ever wonder what small miracle it is
                                    to be able to talk?

Do you ever have those moments where it is
                                   unnatural to talk?

                                                                                                               She yells.
          
                                                                   It's not that she means to be mean.

                       She just appreciates the small miracle it is to be able to talk.

                                                       But sometimes it's unnatural to even talk.

Hold on,
little girl

that car handle can
double as an anchor

your sanity can't fly out
the w
           i
                n
                      d
                           o
                                   w

if we can close it first

hold on
hold tight

the window is latched

safe?

yes.

hold there,
with all your might


keep holding on
to the door handle

because one day
it will open