her small greasy hands
search through your hair

groping for a look
she’s seen on tv

that rotten acorn mess
I loved to tangle

across your eyes
always far off somewhere

she looks like the girl I thought you wanted to be with
my friends say she looks like me

I bet she tells you stories
about girls she's slept with

I bet you read her
my poems and laugh

the two of you
surrounded by clothing and smoke.

moving my stuff
into a pile
in the corner

I find myself selecting poses,
chewy words and wit
After the third glass of wine
it’s me that I forget.
Testing waters too deep
Walking steps too steep
You talk about the dark
I sit and gaze
Watching lips I’ll never know
Breathing his whiskey haze
From a toss of my hair
To the look on your face
Mocked by the years
I cannot erase.

He tore me limb from limb
Only to build me up again.
In a whole new shape.
He built be up again
Just to tear me down.
And left me on the floor.
And walked out the door.

history belongs to the victors.
and so;
if I get through this,
I could say,
that my hair wasn't cheaply dyed and ratty;
but a perfect bottle blonde.
and the way that it fell across my shoulders,
as I slowly put on my leather jacket
in the dark,
was something meaningful,
and something beautiful,
instead of a last resort.