Where earth kisses sky,
dipping sticky fingers into the horizon
the aurora a green chameleon tongue flicking celestial bugs
out of the heavens,
my pride will slip down stone steps like a
slinky
for this
is night,
and discretion is as wispy as a woman's lace, left in a puddle on the
bedroom floor.
Night is mocking me, saying
it belongs to him and her and
I am just an unwanted party guest,
caught taking free drinks from the bar.
Underwear in my back pocket,
I am on the subway overflowing with
toxic noise and the slippery scent
of drugs on the breath
of old men with red cheeks
and hands made of leather and
grease
they smile at me with rotting mouths and I
tug my zipper closer to my
throat.
There is a tangerine on the filthy foul floor, bright and
happy,
I kick it to the gray and angry street below so that
no one will remember that there is light
somewhere up there.
But I
am sick
of night,
and not being able to enjoy it because
you think
it's yours
along with all the other beauty in the world,
which if I admire is merely
plagiarism,
and I am left to dirty guttered streets,
kicking tangerines so I am not tempted
to look on beauty
because God knows I can't create any of my own
and if I do
it is discredited by your assumptions
that I am only doing it
for you.
But let's be honest,
the only reason you believe you deserve the
right to tell me who I am
is because I've done so good a job convincing you
that you are worth it.
But be careful,
we both know that you are just a lucky bowl of
cereal,
the one the prize falls into
by mistake.
Who even wants the plastic ring inside,
just the idea of winning is enough to make one feel
special.
I am so,
so,
so,
sorry that I have warped your mirror into telling you that
you are beautiful, what a cruel joke of mine
that from even here,
I can see your cheeks turn red.
No one has ever called me beautiful but
I don't mind,
I'd rather be strong
for, unlike beauty,
I need no one to tell me so
for it to be true.
Abuse me if you want, although someone really ought to tell you
it is sick
to be proud of beating someone who won't fight back.
But if it makes you feel better,
be my guest.
I can take it,
I have lots of practice with
bullshit.
Just leave me with a butter knife to part my hair
and that necklace I made that you only wore
when the one she made was lost,
don't worry the
irony does not escape me
either; it is as thick as the belching
muck the screaming subway spews, slick and shifting, saturating
shooting stars in
filth,
wishes smothered.
After all,
I've heard they just call those deaths 'casualties' now
as though it were natural
they should be shot
while picking up their kids from school.
the little boy plays his piano,
it is on fire and
he must finish quickly or
not finish at all.
And all for what?
For fake romance that went stale like
rancid milk,
curdling dreams before they'd even been spoken aloud.
What now am I supposed to write about,
when you have claimed all the beauty in the world
and then declared me so fake
I might as well have 'Made in China'
on the back of my neck.
Here, watch me juggle fire
and if my hands end up charred, well,
at least it's entertaining.
I won't let my smile slip
even when they start to bleed because
I'd rather have you laugh and stay
than apologize that I cared enough
to try
at all.
At least let me take credit for my own
stupidity.
I want to chose what I have to regret,
for once I held your sleeve but you
told me
you didn't want to kiss me
so I stood on tiptoes, and I
kissed you instead.
It all boils down to one quotable phrase;
if you love something,
give it away.