you want to pretend that
these red-ink scratches are your kisses,
pressed into paper with your sweet perfume,
sealed with a wish.
— dearly beloved —
you used to call me something sweet,
falling like summer rain, and
pink glass buttons and butterfly wishes
and dreams could come true.
but rain falls to mud and letters are
trampled in the gutter, trash
my words, trash
you knew you'd be heard behind your whisky veil;
artillery doors don't hide secrets.
when the glass broke harlot-red lipstick
stained the rim, whisky ran through wax
and her skirts flew with her to the back room
to meet with her next little boy.
god, you were such a fool for
breathy promises and clever fingers slipping through silk.
god, I was so stupid for you.
and now
you want to pretend your kisses are mine
that you can scratch x's in a row
to make me smile.
and I could scream and cuss and carve you a letter with knives
or I could turn a blinded eye
and cry.