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.