Million Little Holes

The past is just a mirror.
It’s not even facing your direction.
Stop looking in it.

We talked of holiday lights in the trees.
We were going to plant vegetables.
Now there’s nothing but dirt.
Our best plans were best laid to rest.

Reach for the alarm clock.
It has teeth.
They are red and glowing.
It’s not your friend.
Throw it at the wall and live your life.

She met me on the corner with a beanie.
Her hair was blonde and peeking out like a cat.
She told me her name was Joanne.
I knew that was a lie because I knew it was Suzanne.
We kissed because we both had nothing better to do.
And because we’ve both been hurt.

Thunder comes after the light.
You stomp your feet and I come running.
Where the horses throw their manes to the wind,
and the wine spills on my new white couch,
and my Lamborghini pops its tire;
this is the place I come undone,
as you slowly kiss my belly button.

Stick this fork into my side.
Throw away the leftovers.
Take the dinner mint
and smear it on the mirror.
Tell the Maitre ‘d we’re leaving,
but not together. Not ever.

Push pins in the map.
They stab the places you’ve been.
Like my flesh, with its million pores.
Bite your tongue,
all it does is bleed.

Dishes in the sink,
her lipstick on the glass.
Remnants of her in a tray of ash.
I try all the time not to rhyme.

The past is a garbage compactor.
Take it, smash it up.
Throw it away.

…the look of love


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