Love poems are tattoos – messages to yourself
from your drunken youth that serve no purpose
other than to depress you on dark nights, years later
when he’s calling you a ‘stupid bitch’ and you’re questioning
your choices. Love poems, those little pricks.
Yet here you are, writing another of those buggers,
listening to your lover snore as bats creak overhead
as if to say: Leave! Leave! You feel the shift
as he descends down into dream, as backlit
doorways open unto weary homecomers –
the urinal sound of rainwater seeking the ocean.
You stay because you’re in love with the idea of him,
his potential. You and a billion of your kind.
But every time you crack the shits
he reels you back in and your love poems
start singing again like cheerleaders,
their mantra: Believe. Believe.