Let it Be Cindy’s Pain, Not Yours
Cindy shall walk in when you are shaking and queasy,
After your fall of Rome
In a blue skirt, she changes out by the torn curtains. Without care from the peeping Toms
She’s got the eyes of a starving tiger.
And finding yourself in that blood orange revenge As you kiss away the letters to stray hands. She never wears red, but today Her dress is for a wet crimson death.
She will leave you in prayer in the frosty room.
In many hours reading the sadness of Hermann Hesse
She will weave in the stream of lies
The waters that drown the appendages of a once muscular tree.
So Cindy wears the chains.
The Silver pistol earrings
The eclipsing sun can’t hide Rodeo Drive
Where she struts around like a dimestore Bettie Page
She often dreams of her last breath
And she just stares at you like a trapped tiger.
Under some madman’s guidance and brainwashing. You are the one with the inheritance.
The diamonds and bangles, God willing.
The dialysis, the time is coming soon Where is the nurse, to the mystery of men? That runs the house like a tattoo parlor
Is tonight your last night as the hunted?
Let it be Cindy’s Pain, Not yours, not the flowers.
It’ll be hers in this curse
I’ve willed her in these Post-traumatic rebound pastures.
Photo by Emma Trevisan