The cracks on my ceiling seem vast to her.
My imagination died with a man on a tree,
A battle, breathless fantasy, panning realization,
Like the day I discovered Bardot was a nazi.
Oh, we acted the parts!
A lower art, a mime, or less yet. But
I’d rather there was silence than the crushing reassurance
Of contentment and the little death of Marie Antoinette.
A rehearsed shudder, a plucked Hungarian –
My sheets stay achingly white
And deep inside, a teenager dies
With shame at the loss of the point of the night