To You, With Love.

October 25, 2011
I have a scarred heart,
beat it alive with jumpstart cables.
So far,
all you are is a drunk.

I'm lying, of course.
You're a soldier, a singer, a poet,
an insistent ragamuffin on a ferris wheel.
I bet she has bruises from your carnival games.
Play for the same famous prize.
Strong enough to ring the stupid bell.

White straightjacket hell that smells like pine needles
and the roses that I pretended not to want.

I wonder if the bearded lady felt the same way.
a surgeon like a mortician,
or perhaps the other way around,
cutting open a maggot infested Cinderella with a magical scalpel
to find when she died.

I have a scarred heart,
healed over but only like scotch-glued glass.

I hope she likes the paparazzi
"i'm yer biggest fan!!!"

Paperclip fingernail scratches down the camera lens
like the ones on my back.

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