don’t call here drunk

oh i oh i
could bite my tongue clean through;
my fingers
tap out heartbeats
picking routes through
qwerty
that will never
awaken her
building syllabic walls
between us,
surrounding the children
without protecting them

i send my message into space-time
wishing for a do-over,
just erase that one day,
that mother-fucking moment
meeting her,
blue eyes blazing
i, naive,
not recognizing the gaze of a predator

this dance is worse
than Stairway to Heaven
at the seventh grade prom
the smelly boy holding
on too tightly
and it never seems
to end

1SageFemme All Rights Reserved 2017

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