Historical Truths
(i bet you think this poem is about you, don't you, don't you?)

I requested that you

Can it, your Rants, your
prima donna Rants
But you can’t, Can It.

I won’t let you in

on my heart’s level of hurt, you
Shoving me aside, Keep the Version of verse
we Gave You, you said.

Ah, you slithered and sucked your way to that “We”
But where was

I

Now?

You wanted me to be

The ghostwriter for a ghost
/gōst/ = one who occupies the body of a living person
in order to                   complete itself

From this, my vantage,

I witnessed being stuffed

            into a corner

You prick
your presence
an unskilled putty knife
Thrusting me

            into the mitre

My toes, clinging

            to the framing

While you had your way with me

While you

With your imaginary playmates
thrashing mind 
flailing birdie hands
buzzard buddy playing board games

Playing me the same way you

worked the room.

Rapt yourselves around my

Precious morning minutes
Text vibrations

Heaved

My inner rhythm

I requested (again) that you

Can it, your Rants, your
prima donna Rants
But you can’t, Can It.

                                                          

On three, fuck me      

                                                          

For a time I doubled

over     
wondered how
you could burn a bridge with us
and though
you’d done it with so-and-so
and so-and-so, so-and-so, and so-and-so
I looked
the other way.

So Now,

On two…