This one wrote itself in ten minutes in the interval at Bar Wotever


Now, looking back, each kiss feels like a slap,
Each tenderness a momentary pinch
Along a nerve. We rewrite inch by inch
Our history now love’s become mishap

An anecdote we cry about in bars
Or to drag sympathy from lover’s hearts
Who’ve heard it all before. The story starts
With truth each time but angry weeping mars

Our sense of what was real. There’s no excuse
We lie because we hurt. Lie in our soul
Lie to ourselves. A new born gangle foal
Proceeds more smoothly. We both hate to lose

And rather than admit we lost this game
Unite in this last thing. We lie the same


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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