Rumour has it all right
That our childhood dreams—were that!
Dreams, both the butterfly and the man.
Go ahead and cut me down.
From the rope, the only way to hang is by the neck.
Or your hands when you played tug-of-war.
I played ring around the rosy, and was always
Pulled down.

Rumour has it all wrong
That the pretty girls—the royalty, the riches
Were idols of sterling silver.
They were only insecurities packaged into fascist
panties and tyrannous teases.
Royalties of popularity paid by gossip
Watching gold thorn crowns melt through
Your fingers. How does that feel?

But Rumor never really had anything at all,
Nothing but holy water and milk and honey.
The honey that she gave to him who gave it to another her.
“Honey, I’m home!”
There was no home, so the milk went sour.
The milk was too neutral, so he threw out the trash
all over the carpet. She tried to clean it was holy water,
but it only turned out to be water.