As the tips of fingers press accusingly
against bathroom mirrors,
I pile blame onto the surgeries
that had a side-effect of impulsive.
Scanning the scenery of my faded sandals,
I grip elbows in frustration;
this addiction and I go back
like a rocking chair.
1993, September. Old enough for the suds,
pushing four twenties
to the base of stripper poles.
A Scorpion song's worth of dance.
The red hair persuaded silver ballpoint
to draw her into notebooks.
The lips were consonants,
and her figure adjective.
A vowel for an eyelash, comma for breath.
Stolen flashbacks translated
quite well into stanzas;
paragraphs sank in deep.
Diligently writing even on sick days,
taken only through feigning.
Yet I was truly sick for weeks,
sick for the flesh.
Yet even on Tuesdays, slowest nights ever,
she had a ritual
of finishing me up
then forgetting my name.
Obsession became an overwhelming profile,
stuck like scabs on her knees.
She just glanced straight through me,
not a nod of recognisance.
Once so far occupied with her admonitions
of worshiping her shadow,
I came dressed to the teeth.
Again, she ignored.
After a marriage and foreclosure,
I find myself in the same bathroom
where once I took my journal
and dedicated language for her.
Old habits don't die, they brand you forever.
The searing becomes a belonging,
a sick drive to feel welcome.
And the need to be seen.
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