so here I am. a petty thief, a terrible mother, a slut, a whore, a bitch, a cunt.
and?
am I not still worthy of investment?
did I become untenable, obtuse, distasteful?
have I mutated to a form that is unrecognizable in it's deformed attempts at love, it's crushing softness a volatile brick in your belly?
I cannot change.
my wings, while clipped and mutilated, are still in good repair.
I want to tell our story
but I can't really believe
the love you created for me
and make me watch you leave
into the mouth of someone new
your honeyed tender lines
I can't imagine that she knew
your hidden hands in mine
I watched you slipped and sodden
the shadow of the man
a love, a light... forgotten
discarded by your hand
I want to tell our story
I want to sing our song
Our time a recent memory
an illusion all along.
