This is my letter to the editor--

my remarks on the state of the union,

and why I don't call you back anymore.

So everyone says I'm a tough girl, a little bit

hollow inside, with big hair and lips, sharp eyes and cheekbones.

Always in trouble, sleeping in strange boys' vans

and cussing up a storm. Piercing my tongue at twelve,

begging for tattoos at thirteen. Yeah, it's all true.

They don't know that if you dared to breathe,

you'd break my heart.

That's just the way some things are.

ii.

The moths in the porchlight flutter and swoon,

thinking you've starved enough, that those sweet

protestations mean you've changed for good.

If I singe your gray cotton wings a little,

it's all right in the end, it's for a cause.

I can't say the svelte twist of drums and cymbols

won't seduce me away from suburban sidewalks;

the promise of a piano girl lost & found just might be enough.

I don't even believe in reassurance anymore--

it doesn't do any good if every word I say is wrong,

if I'm the reason what we were supposed to have is all gone.

I could offer my heartfelt apologies for ruining your life,

but I don't even know what I'm missing here in

a three-story house with tall windows and wooden floors.

iii.

So hurry in Monday morning with twisting hands

and your old downward-cresting mouth. Even the

expensive pretty things I break to prove a point

can't break this stillness that we've caused,

like we're living on a graveyard of every little battle

that I've lost & won.

There's not much reason, not much incentive,

if my success is your wounded pride and my failure

is your humiliation. I don't know how to be a B minus;

you should've known about my lack of happy medium.

But then, how would you know anything about me?

You're just like everyone else,

attracted only to my self-destruction.