You find solace and dwelling in people who
Smooth Grandma’s antique tablecloth
Over your ever-accumulating trunk of transgressions.
That trunk that rides on your beautiful back.
The sun makes it’s lock gleam in your eyes every morning.
That’s when you cry, and I’m not guessing because
That’s what you told me,
Assuming not every intimate word out of your mouth is a lie.
Your vagrancy is short,
For her homely face and finite mind
Suit your need to assert authority and
Satisfy your narcissism.
Neither her love, her mind, nor her beauty
Can threaten your preference for
Cheap and easy.
So your innate and unmatched charm
Sweep her.
You hurl the hefty trunk to it’s new home on her floor.
You collapse into her bed and
Lose your head.
New fades into routine
Your only possession eventually to blurs into the wall.
Occasionally, she lifts the lace that conceals your pain
- The pain given and taken -
And adds to your collection.
Even more rare, you stir in your bed
With some menacing feeling you can’t seem to shake.
Once you said, “How do you tell if you’re happy?”
- Brittany Kristin Burne, May 20, 2013
