She
has a fantasy girl
her fantasy girl
who is not hers at all
doesn’t know she exists
because existence is
overrated
like a star struck teen
or perhaps not at all like that
more a wreckage that has refused
to completely destroy
that last ember that says
please have some hope
things can be different
she climbs outside of the
mistrust and inability to believe
all the lies people have told her
in such a short life OH how many there were
she puts aside this giant reality
which of course in the real world she never could
because it’s proven itself too many times
to be the most real thing she knows
in this fantasy land
she trusts and believes words people tell
which of course would be suicide
if she wasn’t making it up
but here she is untouched
by the horror of trusting a promise
having it burn through your skin
into your oily marrow
as a lie
here, she controls the fluted outcome
and it is golden
…
her fantasy girl
you may not look at twice
walking down the street
she isn’t the beauty some of those
she shared a bed with were
she doesn’t have the tawny hair of girl 2
or the azure eyes of girl 5
or the coltish legs of girl 3
she doesn’t even possess
a particularly pleasing shape
or long neck or soft bottom lip
but she is incapable of deception
won’t lie even under pressure
isn’t going to tell you what you want to hear
or feel pressured to appease your query
she will
take you in her arms
and honestly give a damn
if she had scars
missing hair
ingrowing toe nails
threadbare clothes
faded underwear with stretched out elastic
and an unflattering sag
she’d be the best girl she ever let inside
where once there was only bleach and scouring brushes
from cleaning out heartache
now, she can open
the latched window to the garden
smell the chasing breeze of fresh air
knowing she’s not going to be burned in some
unguarded moment
like you feel when
you put everything into a bag
give it to someone and say
here, here I am, TAKE ALL OF ME
but be gentle, I am breakable
the person nods and promises eagerly
because they have yet to
try you out
but once they do and it becomes
an old thing, a worn thing, something
already accomplished
you are the yellowed paper
of yesterday’s fish and chips
tossed into a cold fast running river
sinking … sinking … sinking
she will take anything
even a sharp knife or a thick rope
or two fistfuls of pills and a warm oven
over that kind of destruction
where you feel scouged and robbed
of any ability whatsoever to
believe a single WORD
about love and forever and promises
they are the sticky gooey false
stomach sickening lies
that close your wind pipe
keep you vomiting over a dirty toilet seat
in your pretty dress you stupidly bought
thinking it would be such a lovely day
…
no let’s not return to that place again
even if it means giving up on
all of it
living instead
in the barrel of a gun
when you fire
you turn to
silver
