I saw you standing by the door
as I swayed and rocked on the dance floor.
The music was familiar, I could follow
the rhythm, the melody;
it seemed to be the missing part of me--
my unspoken sorrow, and sexuality.
You seemed immature. I didn’t try to understand
what you were saying. Your offered hand,
I rejected.
I thought you were adolescent, smirky
trying to shock, pretending to be *****.
It didn’t make me feel like being flirty.
In fact, you reminded me
of everything I despised.
I couldn’t see the pain in your eyes
or peel away the lies
to hear the truth that you were saying.
A few decades later, here we are.
I’ve now found myself hitched to your star.
Do I now understand who you are–
or did you change--
older, wiser, the pretense gone?
I”m so sorry to arrive at this party so late.
Forgive me–
I was blind,
I was deaf,
I needed someone to hate.
