(On Satin Sheets, God, and General Life)
"Open your Bibles and turn to Luke, chapter one, verse three..."
You wanted me this way,
warming the masses with godly flame
praying on behalf of the lost heathen soldiers,
and dedicating myself to a holier cost...
Only, my precious darling,
you failed to see the flip side of things.
I can’t be your dirty sheet tangled whore or
your poetry spewing begging under balcony Romeo
(I’m quite convinced he didn’t have a cross-dressing Juliet)
I can only be your confidant,
listening to confession laced static
rather than breathy moans and the rustle of clothing...
or a memory tucked inside the edges of a frame
smiling as if this was my last night alive,
on my knees, begging for something you only thought I needed...
Oh no, my dear lover,
I refuse to play these games.
I’ve grown up, ordained my being
tossed childish flights of fancy to the wind
and I’ve changed...
God, how I’ve changed.
So now
I’ll leave you to dream, prophesize on or about
things you don’t
can’t
and will never understand
while I prattle meaninglessly to the random stranger
and nightly crucify myself.
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