When you're wrong
Here I am,
The last detached woman standing.
I’m alone in that.
With contorted hands molding lettered signs of achingly human flesh
I'm learning like a cold computer scrolling a rolodex alphabet
Resting on and questioning contrary Q,
A consonant lost,
Locking my fingers crooked and double-crossed.
Or so she seems to see it.
True.
My sensitivity,
Has long since been
Ground and pounded in-
To a precious powder,
Finely sifted into a corroding canopus,
And left rotting rust
Courting dust on the forsaken mantlepiece
In the old perfect-picture house
That I never had.
At the thought of its phase state,
I bathed myself then
Lathering my skin with oblivious
To scrub at least half a layer
Of the permanent depressed liquor film
Sticking to my pores.
And after
In the tub with a filth stenciled ring
I drew you a bath
Of severe salt water
For healing-
Somehow missing the gaping gash
Bleeding your heart.
Your stinging shock inspired in me
Only
Stomach-turning, moral-churning confusion,
That I should so blindly believe what I thought I knew.
And you did too.
Until you sensed a burn and throb
As the saline solute sealed you unhealed
And it was your time.
It means less than nothing
I’m sure
That I’m
Still seething sorry
Since I chiseled the walls of your cavity.
But the feel of each chip falling is ruinous fallacy:
No actor should believe he
Is what he pretends to be,
If not committed
And toes-up in love with the lie.
Or so it seems to me
If you can let yourself hear
Me disagree
As here I am,
The last detached woman standing.
The last detached woman standing.
I’m alone in that.
With contorted hands molding lettered signs of achingly human flesh
I'm learning like a cold computer scrolling a rolodex alphabet
Resting on and questioning contrary Q,
A consonant lost,
Locking my fingers crooked and double-crossed.
Or so she seems to see it.
True.
My sensitivity,
Has long since been
Ground and pounded in-
To a precious powder,
Finely sifted into a corroding canopus,
And left rotting rust
Courting dust on the forsaken mantlepiece
In the old perfect-picture house
That I never had.
At the thought of its phase state,
I bathed myself then
Lathering my skin with oblivious
To scrub at least half a layer
Of the permanent depressed liquor film
Sticking to my pores.
And after
In the tub with a filth stenciled ring
I drew you a bath
Of severe salt water
For healing-
Somehow missing the gaping gash
Bleeding your heart.
Your stinging shock inspired in me
Only
Stomach-turning, moral-churning confusion,
That I should so blindly believe what I thought I knew.
And you did too.
Until you sensed a burn and throb
As the saline solute sealed you unhealed
And it was your time.
It means less than nothing
I’m sure
That I’m
Still seething sorry
Since I chiseled the walls of your cavity.
But the feel of each chip falling is ruinous fallacy:
No actor should believe he
Is what he pretends to be,
If not committed
And toes-up in love with the lie.
Or so it seems to me
If you can let yourself hear
Me disagree
As here I am,
The last detached woman standing.