I take a bath,
candles and Barry Manilow,
drinking myself to death,
and then throwing a tantrum when I wake up alive, again,
despite being unable to swim,
just clinging to life,
surrounded by portraits of pain and horrified hearts.
I’m kept up all night,
by all the lives I’ve lived,
and how little sense they made,
when they were no longer moments,
just memories that play and give me pause.
I hold no affection for all the women and girls that I’ve been,
and no real love for the flames that lit the way,
the famous paramours behind the pages,
just shadows and scars that are stained,
no matter how much I scrub and plead and burn and bleed.
I have never successfully won the love of anyone I liked,
my hems are lined with the hearts I cast aside,
and I can’t abide looking at them,
with their eyes full of sorrow,
resigned, like mine, when I look at the portraits of my pain,
the faces of my ill fated adventures,
enchanting me, like a seduced snake or a dancing bear,
until I am whatever they want,
and even then,
they never want me.