I have always retreated from the truth that you never were who I had imagined you to be. Really, doll-face, you should be thanking me for the three years of enlightened vision I've let take advantage of who you really are.

You are my toy. My ring of bells. The two chains around my neck; big girl amusement, with the heart charm gone between my lips, the peace symbol gone down into my shirt. Like so, boy, you are savored deeper than deserved in my mouth, held tighter than moral to my body.









I would let my thoughts give you courage, stamp you with wit. And suddenly, I am safe from that burn; the fire of injustice; my constant reach for what is not there.

My imagination can so deceive; no, you are cold chapped lips, salted red eyes, and stupid jokes that make me cringe. And all I am left with is the taste of cheap metal on my tongue.