Dare I use a red pen to share some words
of bleeding my emptiness out
into a disposable cushion between me and the hard reality
of aspiring romance
a singleness seeped in searing fear?
Is it that I’m afraid of using the red pen
or that I’m the disposable one too many times
by hard rods whose names been etched in the headboard
a parkbench for hapless lovers
with knives handy
for carving out the heartwood?
There’s something about red ink
and corrected papers
and feeling edited or critiqued or
knowing that I’m only the draft girl.
Yes, practice on me for I’m not real
nor is my blood.
Or is my womb space that’s been shredded again
and again simply a haven for the heartless?
I’ve never been the final copy
only one to see the red
and know that the real teacher is not here
[note – i have added the “—” since WordPress keeps on dropping the empty lines and compressing the poem into one long one with no breaks… the ellipses are to show there is a break there… sigh…]