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I scrub my heart until the
ink runs like my mascara
did last night when

you threw the playbill at
me and told me that i was
the better actress, but you
were the better man. I glared
at you through the blood
in my eyes as you recited
your lies to my face. "I
want you. I need you." And
true to your form, your disdain
was there in black and red
for all to bleed.

But it was far too late
(and not a moment too soon)
for the play was already cast.

I am the damsel in recess who
weaves her clothes and her lies
on the very same loom. i show
no surprise when my sentence
swallows my words. I just watch
you raise the blade higher and
higher over my head. Love is
the misogynist who let you feast
on my heart as the poet cried
herself to sleep and the misers
raked in the mire.

You plunge your knife into my
heart to thunder and lightning
disguised as applause.

I am still not surprised.