you had "tabula rasa" tattooed across your face.
and at first it was charming.
i thought i was being gracious by ******* you.
you knew nothing but you had dimples.
i thought i could teach you, mold you, make you into a woman.
you had the hips for it.
but you were raised in a cardboard box in the unbent hills.
you only had maybe seven words in your vocabulary
"yes" "no" "i don't know" and "**** me harder"
okay, that's eight.

but you are just a girl living in a soggy paper bag.
this life is a circus where
rescued dogs flick cigarettes on orphans
a paradise i've seen in my dreams a hundred times
i'm riding atop the wild tiger you sleep behind and
you're small minded and i'm ugly on the inside
it's raining sharp shadows
and derisive rocks on the forgotten tombstones
of your favorite pets
while you sit at a bay window comfortable and dumb
and you went back to him, of course you did
demanding to be loved.
to be forgiven.
and of course he forgave you
what, with those dimples.


i'm a *******, unshaved today.
a baby bounced down steps.
yes, i deserve this.
i'm climbing collapsible tables,
searching the lost shores like
a rich man staggering in a moment of hysteria,
scattering ***** across an afternoon.
i'm rising above the trees to caw
and cry at you from a distance,
singing on hot wires, frightened of my own voice.

i'm always making up imaginary scenes
and i'll leave you alone now.