Dear Poetry,

Old Tricks

Your lonely collarbone

                   whispers of destruction,

and flowery obituaries.

Sometimes,

it sings of has been stories, and—

remember whens.

                     But, only when I

                     dare open my eyes.

You weren't the pixie goddess

I painted with pretty words.

                     You were hard life pains,

                     and those nasty little pleasures

[ we never dared to talk about. ]

But, I'll save you the trouble

of a halfhearted denial—Sweetheart,

                    We came alive in my nightmares.