This is for a cheating motherf**er:
I'm bent over the sidewalk, weeping, outside the theatre.
You stand above me hoarse, built from a father's beer cans,
and it's my fault.
Always is.
You said, “do what you will” when your will was done.
So what? I was born drunk and mean with my teeth knocked out.
So what? I've been born crying, and I've been going strong ever since.
That other man has a name. I hate that.
He has a mouth and a fixed-gear bike and HIV, and you sat on his bed
waiting for him to say anything–that you're pretty, or you're nice,
or have nice sneakers–and when he did, you leapt in his body and lived there a while,
maybe brushed your teeth, ate a spoiled piece of fruit,
then came back to me
with your house keys out.
The ones I had cut for you.
Said you couldn't stop thinking of me,
how he tasted too sweet–
cut flowers in chemical powder,
candy souring in heat.
How glad you are to live here,
where everything feels safe, basic real estate.
My chest, a thin sheet of latex,
my bed, a coffin for you to store your futures in.
How bad does the news have to be before you get to shoot the messenger?
How do you bury the hatchet when it always ends up in my back?
When you tell me he empties you like an animal hide,
I'm fine, until I'm inconsolable, in public,
and everyone's crying.
I don't know why I'm crying either;
maybe it's because we're going to see a play where everyone dies.
Maybe I can't bear to look at you covered in mouths.
Maybe it's the sidewalk, pulling salt out of my head.
Maybe I can't see you now,
without also seeing you dead.