In the waiting room

Forgot my notebooks
my appointments locked me up
out of your box for a day
breathed perfectly
shaking off security guards
flirting in front of my daughter
walking in malls
of the living dead.
Watching you charm
the nurses
is he always like this? They ask.
My smiles are tired
my love superb
like a classical piece
Chopin opus 9
its ups its downs
its climax.
I needed that breakdown
to stop me from smoking
drinking
now I feel too much
numb it
with your body on mine
I don’t need modern love
too old-fashioned
too old to keep up
I’m so fine
in the waiting room.
My time to write
to heal
among these expert doctors
touching my breasts
my heart
when it belongs to you.
Crying to songs
my vampire make up
smudging my creases.
I am feisty
only he can handle me
in your wildest dreams
you wouldn’t want a wife
like me
not even a lover for a day
I’m not that type
not a true artist at all
keeping the drugs
under the pillow
the cancer behind
the counter
where no one can reach.

Subterfuge

Every time I read The Great Gatsby
The flaws appear like claws.
The false hope (the buried seeds)
The reality (the burnt lights)
The illusion (the masked truth)
Living in the moment (dying for it)
The deceit (the diversity of love).
Hence, the walls rise
To reflect upon the mortar
And perhaps I could be the woman you need
But do you even need me?
You are thriving on your own
Free
Alive
Much better than I fare
I’d rather wear my jeans
Than put on the fake fancy air. I will not write for you.
She is far from who I could ever be
and he is not you.

None of it is real
plays with my head
as I stare at the moon
during the day before I open my bed.
I mean nothing of what I say
do not care about the splash
I suppose Daisy and I would share a drink and some hash
and Tom would sweep me off my feet again (like he always does)
and the poems would lay
at the bottom of the pool
as the blinding light
seizes to blink
love’s selfishness
and how it can all sink.