My memory is made of stills and clips
torn out of context. Who’s that boy, my date?
When did I have that grey silk dress? I hate
to think how thin I was then. And my hips,
so skinny though I spill out of the top
best buy I ever made. The dress as well.
Years later, in black leather, at the Bell
quite drunk and thirty-something, riding crop
slung from my belt. We all thought that so cool.
Red marks on my white skin. She strokes my back.
She loved my shoulders. Yet what they lack
these memories, is how I thought her cruel
how my feet hurt in heels, all that lost pain.
Thank Christ I’ll never be that girl again.