of beads and shrapnel.

we were a bad match from the start.

you were a monday child. herald of sorrows.
and i. i was born under the sign of the wheelbarrow. i always had to be pushed.
but what THEY never saw.
was how our shadows melted into one under the merciless april sun.
as we stood under the rickety skeletal electric poles.
waiting for the red and blue and green dragonflies to buzz by.

we grew up.
i marched off with the army.
and you were beckoned to a seminary.
your knee- and fingerpads. grew thick with callouses.
going through all those beaded mysteries.
genuflecting for my salvation.
a bead for every bullet i shelled out.

the heavens were busy with angelic mahjong.

all i had to send you were my medals.
and the shrapnel i ripped out of my own flesh. . .
my letters reeked of gunpowder and marsh gas.
though they were bare of any endearments.
we did not really need any. . .

we were a bad match.
yes.
but all be damned.
we are one helluva match.

this war is over.

i am comin' home. . .

and you will give me my absolution.

Cinderella

I worship Vivienne Westwood,
you exclaimed.
Cinderella,
were we but sixteen then?

When you would dress up in front of me.
In your salmon pink fishnets, canary yellow patent mary janes, and lavander shirt dress.
were we but sixteen then?

When you asked me if I think Clint Eastwood or Marlon Brando enjoyed blowjobs immensely.

And if the Queen ever spreads her legs.



You would demand intently of me to brutalize you.

Rape you.

"I want to be your whore".
- You would point out.
- between smoke rings and soda gulps . . .

we were so young then.



Slipping into our glass cage. All fragile and raw.

You treated me like a tampon.

AND I LOVED IT.

24/7.




Cinderella.

You're back.

We're not sixteen anymore.


But we can be.


Tonight. You would pull me back to your red and white calico bed.

Then we would fuck like cats until noon.








For now.

You would paint my nipples gold.

And we would say our prayers
- like the good children that we are . . .