Darling buds of May

I loved him so;

(it must have made it all the more sweet to pull him between your legs.)

I don't know,

my little darling

(Buds Of May)

I'm all dried up

with the tears

that I've cried.

I live my life that way that I choose to;

and I regret nothing

about what I've done

to get ahead

of you

and the

thin hair line

from his bellybutton

downward,

or the tattoo

of my face

that you stapled onto your penis

like a proclamation

(of how much I was yours)

I'll just let your sluts

suck it (and you)

off

with the replacement of my absence.

You

and I

aren't going to work it out,

and the bullshit letters that you send to me

won't make it all better,

baby

my

darling

(darkling)

buds

of May

and the failure

of my faltering heart;

don't you get it, I can't cry anymore.

I went away once,

completely

and fucked twelve men

in twelve months

(call me a whore if you want, but it was good sex

-good sex

without shit

to complicate

the situation.-

Its not my fault that your not getting laid

enough

to repay your stubborn streak.

Its not my fault that you view "shoot" as a swear word

and have to excuse yourself under the dinner table when you say it.

Its not my fault

that your scared to death

to breath

boldly.)

I loved him so

but my darling

buds

of May

can't sting me

anymore.

What about the investment

of me as

such an ugly girl

(did you know that I cut all of my hair off?)

(did you know that I won't leave the house without enough eyeliner

to hid

my designer-printed heartache?,

whatever the hell was left for you to take

-in the end-

was fake

and she

was not me.)

And its not my fault

that you wanted to move to Alaska and raise abandoned dogs

(or how you stayed up all night

listening to Sylvia Brown tapes as though she we're a god)

or that you fucked two different boys

just to kiss the one that I loved.

And its not my fault

that I was so obscure

that you felt sure

that you needed to be me;

hang on my arm

because everything that I had

you wanted

even him

and my devotion

which outlasted

the outdated walls of high school.

(I have no use for you anymore,

did you know that I don't make friends easily now?)

Did you know how much I loved him?

With his twenty-seven handwritten love letters

that I keep between

the bony layers of my hands

when I read them;

boxed up

boxed in

bullshit,

I loved him so; once,

but I think that if I ever saw any of you again I would scratch your eyes out;

let the fine points of my fingernails

facilitate

my furry,

because I will never get the picture of him

squeezing my breasts,

or him

putting his finger in you

(out of my mind,) or

behind my back

as though you had no clue

(fucking shrew;)

who I called best friend

for so long.

And its not my fault that Jon moved to Texas

(like Grover, right -so akin we're her lies-)

and its not my fault that Matt left you dry,

and its not my fault that you both hung out with Josh when he was high.

But it was my fault that I never asked why

you hurt me so

before the phone line went dead

and how

after graduation

in our gowns of green

I left

and re-birthed myself;

conceivable inside my moan

I carried this hate around me for nine months

and contracted

myself anew

renew

my rebirth:

(did you know that I fell in love with a man

who told me that I was beautiful?)

(did you know that I got scared

-rabbit like, am I-

and ran?)

(Did you know that I almost died in a car crash?)

And its not my fault

that

my three little darling buds of May

(the one made of lies especially)

never cared

to notice

the pain on my face

that last year,

from Christmas on

when I was planning my get away

like a clever thief.

You can pull yourself together all you want;

but Amanda: you will always be just like your mother,

and Amber: will always be just like you

and he

is death

kissed

into life;

poison

(he lets you in

to fuck you out.)

And to think

I once loved him so.