Historical Truths

I requested that you

Can it, your Rants, your

prima donna Rants

But you can’t, Can It.

I won’t let you in

on my heart’s level of hurt, you

Shoving me aside, Keep the Version of verse

we Gave You, you said.

Ah, you slithered and sucked your way to that “We”

But where was

I

Now?

You wanted me to be

The ghostwriter for a ghost

/gōst/ = one who occupies the body of a living person

in order to complete itself

From this, my vantage,

I witnessed being stuffed

into a corner

You prick

your presence

an unskilled putty knife

Thrusting me

into the mitre

My toes, clinging

to the framing

While you had your way with me

While you

With your imaginary playmates

thrashing mind

flailing birdie hands

buzzard buddy playing board games

Playing me the same way you

worked the room.

Rapt yourselves around my

Precious morning minutes

Text vibrations

Heaved

My inner rhythm

I requested (again) that you

Can it, your Rants, your

prima donna Rants

But you can’t, Can It.

On three, fuck me

For a time I doubled

over

wondered how

you could burn a bridge with us

and though

you’d done it with so-and-so

and so-and-so, so-and-so, and so-and-so

I looked

the other way.

So Now,

On two…