You tell me
you’re unlucky in love, with ‘aw shucks’ shoulders
leaning in to be heard over the noise
of a Thursday night Bar & Grill. You tap your finger
close to my wrist on the bar and say
that maybe that’ll finally change tonight.
Your head is ducked, lip bitten.
This is your best performance and
I’m waiting for intermission
to leave
only out of politeness.
Any man who has ever told a woman
“All my exes are Crazy *******”
I thank you.
I thank you for
delivering the warnings from the women
who have escaped you.
Every
“Crazy *****”
you tell me about is
a letter in an envelope, stuck inside
a letter in a bigger envelope, stuck inside
a letter in a bigger envelope, stuck inside
a letter in an even bigger envelope,
and each one
is a message that your ex-girlfriends sent ahead
in the fog after
carrying the echoes inside of themselves.
A choir, a chorus,
a thundercloud.
So
I want to thank you
for being the postman,
for handing off this chain-letter,
this betrayed scrapbook,
these red flags covered in sticky notes.
You opened your mouth to give me
compliments with worn down joints,
and what fell from your lips
was a package I can barely
reach around.
It’s wrapped up tight in red tape
but I can still hear the women screaming
from inside.
They yell things like
“I’m not crazy, I’m just mad!”
“He breaks you and then blames you!”
“Everyone looks overly emotional
to someone afraid of their feelings!”
You smile and say
I have beautiful eyes, real soulful, kind.
Like I want to take care of the world.
I look at you with my
caring eyes
and
I want to tell you:
I’m ******* crazy.
-
You wear what you were to them. You hold what you did to them. But don't worry, maybe I'm only negging you.