for this poison cigarette lying here
on this blowing newspaper sidewalk that tells her things
and refuses to speak
for when she buckles with the weight of the words
and tells me i will never understand
with her industrial mouth and spoiled eyes
for this she is dying.
for the poem she writes of unrequited hate
and the pain she can never have
because she is so small she can never fall apart
for the beauty she sees in being ugly
that she says i can never understand
for this she would die...
and instead is growing old.
Back.