Shattered Valentine

She is the only one who loves me enough to correct me
or so she tells me
in that imperious voice
that details all the sins of the world.

I would never fit in her floating cloister
or so she tells me.
Not authentic enough
not exposed enough
not focused enough
not suffering enough
not enough like her.

I am a failure of truth
or so she tells me
while her compartmentalized life
where she builds walls
between the proper
and the venal
which she only participates in because of obligation
is the model of rightness.

My cavalier play, my laughter and fluidity is all wrong
or so she tells me
while her dour earnestness
allows her to judge
the sickness of the world
which I just can’t see.

I have to understand how it felt to discover that
the voice she was falling for was actually me
or so she tells me
because getting under her skin
and making her feel
something human
is just rude and offensive.

After a tranny life, her heart is broken into tiny bits
or so she shows me
shards spraying everywhere
misted with the blood
of a beautiful girl
hacked up and stuffed in a box

It hurts too much to be the one who wiggles
or so she shows me
with a red cloud of corrections
shaped just like
the mist of her own painful denials
walling off a heart shattered too often.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Holly.

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