Don’t Know What to Call You

Photo by Mayank Dhanawade on Unsplash

No tears,

because I’m used to it.

No trust,

sometimes it’s a game.

Discomfort,

can’t wrap my mind around it.

Is it pity,

to call me pretty?

I know he accused me,

sayin’ he won’t perform.

I never asked for a showcase —

not that he couldn’t put one on.

When it mattered,

when it mattered,

he was the greatest storyteller alive.

Don’t put on airs to appease me.

I wanted the sincerity you claim in every breath

I wanted more than maybe I deserved,

I guess,

respect was just too unfair.

Yes,

respect was just too unfair.

I don’t recall demanding falsehoods.

I wanted something real at night.

His razor’d tongue cut me to pieces —

I can’t stand myself sometimes.

No tears,

No —

You see,

I’m used to it.

No person should be used to it,

But,

“that’s the way the world goes.”

Please.

I won’t beg you to love me.

Elaborate plans made to be scrubbed of me.

I hope it all worked out.

It did,

With a smile and his Henny-Pepper,

It did.

“I don’t know what to call you”,

So I was told to give him names.

I had to name my own beauty,

I could not give her a true name.

I am built like my father was.

All wiles of femme ran out the door.

I tried to cross the lines,

Oh,

I like the gremlin-bear much more.

“I don’t know what to call you”,

Never would,

never did!

Did you settle on the temporary stone?

Did you find your perfect rib?