Forgive me if
I flinch,
or am accustom
to being left
in the dumpster
where my last relationship
promptly stood it's ground
and stained the walls with
the most beautiful sounds
of suicidal intent.
I've become very good
with battlefield amputation,
but I'm afraid that I've run short
of limbs.
Forgive me if
you find that
I limp away when
people drag out the
skeletons from yesteryear
to flaunt.
It's not personal
I just have a hard time choking
on their memories.
The echoes forget
to call my name,
and really,
who can blame them?
They've forgotten,
what I probably should have,
how to take this
***** off my sleeve.
Real men play piano,
and resonate in the
hollow spaces where the
notes travel, hand to hand.
They all have little
secrets in their lines,
their lives,
with so much buzz,
though I can't locate their hives.
They learned the art of disguise
from mommy's secret guys,
and realized that
history doesn't lie,
doesn't repeat itself,
though it probably should
with a stutter like that.
History doesn't repeat itself,
but I'll be ****** if it doesn't rhyme.