Reckless

Poetry whispers in my ear. Says come to me, come to me, you know you want me. Poetry, I feel like a whore. Like a penny dropped to the bottom of a well that didn't even grant wishes. I'm here holding onto the moon like it's fucking tangible. Like I can sip my tea with joy, and brace myself from the cold, walk the beach, the golden sands, like I get it, like I feel it, but I don't. I don't get it. Poetry, I'm only yours. I'm only nothing and my hands are always cold. I'm empty, but the good kind of empty. Like unpacking a suitcase after a long absence from home. This void, so delicious, so purging; and off the suitcase goes to the back of the closet, to the bottom of the well where I, cheap penny, shine like a rockstar after fame. Dull and used, I exhausted my drug habit, my love song, my life.

All Of my lovers were butcher musicians We'll start a band one day in my daydreams We'll name it The Ones Who Got Away I'll say something like, Back me up guys, play louder And they'll say something like, Why do we have two guitarists and a bassist when what we really need is a drummer? And I'll say, Because I want to sing, and have a type They'll shrug their heavy shoulders and let out a sigh completely devoid of any sexual tension whatsoever

The lawlessness of the river runs through my veins. I don't know how to swim, I know how not to drown. It's easy to run away from home when there's over a dozen kids crawling along the mud like pigs. My daughter asks, who do you miss? I say, I never was too close to anybody but I remember the butcher and his son, who raped me. Daughter, we are gypsies. Home is a dream we had one day.