anger

don't try to take anything too literal from this one, it's just vague ideas from my head, a narrative, but it's all fictional. romanticize me if you must but I'm not she. Oh, but the lipstick is real.

Cheap pearls drag from your neck
you wore your mother's perfume
borrowed her stockings, when varnish failed against the ladders
bandaids on your heels
the shoes are too high, you'll carry them home,
falling from fingers loose with wine
                                       with cigarettes
                                          was that your first kiss?

The lipstick in the drawer was dry,
a relic from the eighties. Or some year gone.
Anger, you thought you had it,
            you didn't think at all.
The peppermint taste on your tongue won't hide it.
You've chipped your tooth in red: it shows.

I want to speak to you through the years,
into the photograph, smoky eyes smudged adolescent
drill it into your stupid fucking head
They don't love you, they never will, they never will, they never will

- is it a prayer now, a serenade to you, a jaded birdsong melody?
- or is it just my bitterness shining through?
- I'm sorry.

It was your first kiss, after all.