I love to listen to the songs

men write about the women they're only half-in-love with,

'cos they're the goddesses of rock n' roll,

the self-destructive muses of rising chords

and sad voices trying to call back home the shaken

wanderlusting best-friend don't really know who she is

anymore.

Their hearts are buckled boxes -

padlocked and smothercrushed; it makes their bodies flighty

and untouchably wild.

Loving her in reckless blue;

Pitying I know it's true

she's nearly always terrified;

it leaves her skin

faux-mischievious violet to the touch

and he'll strum sad chords for her wince-body, how she feels defiled

when no one's left to make her bleed,

but defiantly insistent that this next departure

is the one will wrench her free.

(-)

fierce-vulnerable irony. To barren fear

append such status, to be maskingtaped in

blue marble and we'll make statues of her

sad smiles and constant state of needing to be away from here.