That badass in your head
who f---s all those bitches
and lives on a yacht, or
on the road, or in some
city penthouse suite--
who doesn't want your tiny life
with its hard monogamy and its
kids and church and morals;
That rock star you could have been,
who swears your world is
a consolation prize, forged
from weakness, built from not taking
what you want, from not leaving
old lives and old crowds, shaped by fear
of your mother's dismay, fear of losing
your shitty, moralizing friends;
That elite success who mocks you
from his uptown corner office,
or from his Benz, in his well-groomed heels
sailing down some city sidewalk
full of his own victories and conquests
as you wipe up the foul, brown shit
smeared across a wiggling two-year-old's ass--
You know that guy? Well,
don't we all. And:
That monster isn't you.
He never made your decisions.
You never made his mistakes.
June 2016
