Poor, Poor Me

Where did you come from, my demon friend,

sporting tall, dark and handsome like (perfection) in sin?

With all that black hair falling down,

almost hiding those bedroom eyes

      (perfection), in deep mahogany brown.

How did you grow to six foot three (perfection)

Was it God or Satan sent you to torture poor me?

My sister told me, “If he looks too good to be true,

He’ll be a walking pile of trouble for a person like you.”

She laughed, but I let you in.

How did you know

I’d like to see the need in your sultry smile? (perfection)

When did you decipher my jaded cold style?

Decide you could break away all that ice?

Was that it? a challenge, and nothing nice?

Perhaps a bet or just a dare

That backfired along the way somewhere?

My sister told me, “If his wooing is too good to be true

He’ll be a walking pile of trouble for an innocent like you.”

She laughed but I let him in.

You never had a single doubt you could own me,

And you did, God save me, you did.

You did become my God, (perfection)

My God! Like no other man before you.

Why, oh why did you dive into my soul,

And blind me like a dream come warm from heaven,

A dream hot from hell?

Where did you get that flawless skin,

Warm and soft, all male and stretched taught

         over youth & strength and oh, poor me...

Wearing that tiny blue sparrow on your left shoulder blade

         to emphasize just how beautifully you’re made.  (perfection)

You earned it, you crossed the equator, you said, but which one, I pray?

An equator of the mind? of morality? of the heart?

You smiled wickedly when you said you’d breached the gateway to hell.

I laughed, but now I know it’s true

I’m not one woman, but one of more than a few

Who knows it to be true.

My sister told me, “If his love is too good to be true

He’ll keep a stable of women just like you.”

She laughed, but I let you in.

Such an enigma:

            Truths and lies

            How mellow, how mean

Holding on to a sweet, sweet dream

    of the peace and pleasure that made me stay.

My lover giveth, my lover taketh away.

The newspaper reminds me almost every day

   of how much I’ve left behind.

            Both good and bad

(You guessed it) Both happy and sad.

Men like you are in the movies,

       and women like me are in the obituaries.

Oh, my sometime sweet, sweet baby, the reason for all this woe,

It’s past time for me just to let you go.

I won’t drown in that proverbial river of tears

Or smother facing lonely, restless years,

Years I won’t return to you, poor me,

To die there in your arms, or at your whim.

I’ll tell you once again

I won’t go back there to die

In your arms or at your whim.

My sister forgot to tell me if a man acts like you,

Turn around and run.

© 2011 C. Harter Amos