A Curious Girl

She is made out of my heart.

 

A rib cage worn, read like a story.

 

Traced back to

a curious girl

clutching a throat.

The last time I clutched so

was to throttle

a washed-up weekend—

Of Unoccupied Lovers,

Making friends with the weekend—

Making donations to its end.

 

(I’ll surely drink my fill.)

 

Like flash pictures in a mob,

Like flash pictures of her sobs.

She cranks her heart to breaking,

But over-cranked I was shaking.

 

(Feeble pants of breath is my

Love thrown about a room.)

 

Movement wasted on

a curious girl,

She lagged behind.

She was not who she claimed to be—

A washed-up weekend, the Unoccupied Lover

I knew myself to be—.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s