Put away Childish Things

My malfunctioning tabula rasa, 

ready to be filled with editorial notes.

Some children are born to disappoint,

but a daily meal of criticism

filled even my thick skull 

until self hatred spilled out my blue orbs.

No more would fit.

My playmates and classmates were showered

with love for simply being.

I mirrored them, echoing,

but every action, backward, distorted

and wrong.  Or, so you told me.

Ten is too old for playthings.

My untouched dolls, eyes glassy with judgement,

lined dusty shelves.  Playtime was over.

My only escape from you, closed to me.

You locked the gate, sealing out the light.

Hoarding your miserly draconic love.

My inner drummer marched me cliff ward.

I learned to always choose the men

who loved by dismantling.

They knew all the songs

you ever sang to me.

I followed the piper. I danced, 

always getting the steps wrong.

I can never quiet your voice,

the siren in my ear,

the storm of your indifference

forever eroding the sand foundation

of my mirage of self.

Heartless

Your heart trembled in my hands;
my eyes, blind.
The men were my mirror.
My self work so much
spilled semen on satin sheets.

You left your door open.  
I chose the window.
I thought he was my vision quest,
my knight in the sweat lodge.

He clanked in,
full of answers
to the wrong questions.

I left you; lost you;
your heart so much shrapnel 
beneath my hooves,
charging the wrong way.

Friendship is War

I loved a Botticelli artist,
Medici nosed and sewer deep.
You took him.

Cutting cheekbones
your heavy arsenal.
Victory was inevitable.

Scalps lined your shelves
from Joe Punk
to Evil Personified.

Friendship is war.

We were dolls to be broken
and dropped.

Stand on the pile,
your battle plans to self esteem.

Shredded

I judged your profile,
forgetting Lord Byron was a bastard.

You were a garret in Paris,
a moth in the darkness.

I brought my black bag,
brimming with legs and breasts.
I couldn't cure you.
The infection was too ingrained.

Your pretty words
turned my head 360.
Your hook was barbed.
I swallowed.

The fight was pitiful.
You cut the line,

leaving me numb,
among the splatter,
my faith torn,
my feet shredded,
your cock broken.

Winged Alice and the Keyblade of Doom

Your cigarette blown words
lodge firmly in my back.

Losing a toe or three 
keeps me swaying on the beam.

My fluted mouth stiffens.
I drop more than my shirt 
in the parading maze of dazed revelers
sweating in the Carnival swelter.

Twinned but not;
best friend for never.
Dissected from skin to bone.
The stripes on my pants are all wrong.

The paper mache grizzly,
the Army green ginger,
neither fits.
Your German blonde elevates you
to the balcony scene.

Keeping my mask carefully blank,
I fall into beta position.

In the garbage piled streets,
no one wants to vomit alone.

Another Brick in the Wall

You muzzled me, 
taking the key away.

I waited for my carrot. 
Sticks followed stones.

They poked me.  
They jeered 
but I believed.

If I was just good 
for long enough.

I stayed mute; 
my hands empty, 
eyes ahead.

I pretended not to see 
candy falling into the hands
of the rebels, the misfits, 
and the artists.

I applied for your approval,
selected my Waldo moment.
I stayed the course you set.
My rat for your cheese.
My obedience in triplicate.

You stamped me; 
rewards delayed.

I misunderstood 
what I was playing for.

The rule book is faulty.
Only the dead reap the prize.