There was a time in the 80’s when I was sixteen
and Michael was my everything
while I was his nothing. And even years
later every time I’d see him he pretended
i was nothing. from nothing to something.
from something to nothing. i call him an asshole
now. even my daughter knows his name. it’s not
a fucking secret how i loved him. you probably never
get over a love. and when i left or you left or whatever
happened because it’s all a blur, for the second or third
or fourth time and i ran into you on the street and you told
me to stop my car. you always wanted me back
every time I ran you ran faster. you married me
we had kids
i had red roses and an Alfred Sung gown.
Once I met a man, it was brief, maybe twenty minutes
or so, once he told me how my beauty
marked him. another time a man wrote
a book for me, he wanted my blood
as his pen. sucked me dry out of my silence.
created some Greek fucking muse of abuse
and left me with ashes on my cheeks.
It’s true that you never forget a love.
It’s true that you love your wife.
It’s morality to want it all and smoke in the hall.
i’ve lived it. you have no idea how I live.
I’m an artist and he supports my locked up frustrations.
my midnight madness
even if he isn’t one, he loves my crazy.
But you, you get all of me
in a brown package
delivered straight to your heart
and you open me up gently.
just be sure
to not mix me up
with your other soul mates
and i will do the same.
my eyes and hair haven’t changed much