I miss poetry and singing and rhyme. At work there isn’t much of it, and because I’ve resolved myself to going to the gym every day, watching much too much comedy television, and giving up sugar until mid-February, my mind’s been a little preocupada. But once again, I have identified that I am giving another excuse, when all I really needed was inspiration, found where it always hides: real life.
Damsel in Distress, a poem (with the avoided title, “Liar, Liar, Hearts on Fire.” I think what I ended up with was better)
L-I-A-R: living in altered reality
stepping on the casualty that is my heart
taking baby steps into the dark
and what you do not know
is how many stabs it took to reach the kill wound
but knowing full well each stab would hurt
knife in, then out,
almost sexual, the blade
the same blade you twirled from one hand to the next
equivocating love, when you meant sex
and that’s what she gave
while you buried my broken heart under a grave,
your knife now duller than a spade,
as you prepare no eulogy.
But if you did, what would you say?
Would you tell them of the way you watched me die?
More court jester, than a princess by your side?
Or would you simply take yourself in arms,
the knife and knave and nymph
Foolish me for thinking I’d at least get an apology,
some semblance, sentence of guilt,
to make up for the grip still on your hilt
hand readied for more action
with another maid you’ve confused for a dragon
fire in her lungs,
fire in her tongue
her heart soon to be in ashes.