she was like a bird
with one broken wing,
to weak to
fly off and find her soul mate
so instead she hobbled
a broken retreat from the
life she never planned during her little girl tea parties;
she gave up, so cheaply
dressed men with
knock-off watches and foreign accents and foreign
cars could have foreign
orgasms. no, her
wings were clipped by then and she had forgotten
how to fly and her
one-night boyfriends drank too much booze before
they came home to cum.
I would hear her tears crashing on the floor
after those men left her,
like her dreams running away to crash into a cliff;
she wept oceans
and I wept with her because I
fancied what she must have been like when her wings
were vibrant and healthy. no, her
soul mates didn't care about none of that
shit.
they probably hated poetry too;
ugly brutes with no taste to appreciate the beauty in her color
or the music in her voice, or the
tenderness in her touch, or
even the regret in her eyes as she stared at the wall;
I pressed my hand against that
barrier between us occasionally, and I would pretend
that we were on a
beach somewhere and it wasn't her tears
crashing against those cliffs,
but rather sea salt
washing away the anguished looks
I would spy whenever we locked eyes.
I guess I'm drunk too, because that
never happened. no, she was like a bird
with one broken wing
to weak to fly,
and she never did find the beach,
or her soul mate.
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