Like my lightning bolt tattoo
Inked into the top of my right foot
(That I got after some other boy
Said he wasn’t in love with me
After all)
You are becoming faded and fuzzy around the edges.
You are an agonizing reminder of all the greatness
I could have had, if.

If only we didn’t live on two separate continents,
If only we hadn’t fought over the blankets,
If only we hadn’t made up for the blankets, slick minutes turning to hours.
If only that other girl hadn’t spent your comely heart.

If only you hadn’t looked at me the way you did
(like you loved every part of me, even my right foot)
then I wouldn’t be getting a foreign tattoo.

But then again, I like the burn of needle to skin.

Put my clothes in the wash to erase the
colorless stains you find so imperfect,
but I see only in splendors of golds
and greens and reds that drip till the ink
runs down into a blur of that cyclical
motion I cannot tear myself away
from even if my begonias wither
into a mulch you would appreciate
despite the enduring summer dusting.

Was it not you who said I was living
in a dream world when you are the one who
thinks perfection is a lovely notion?