My name isn’t Karen darling.
The rose petals make a beautiful canvas
of broken promises and sweet nothings you made to me.
I am bent over cigarette ashes
My high heels have rubbed into mosaic.
I look down the moonlit street.
The wind blows creating a secondhand made symphony.
It is bittersweet music to my ears
And as the wind picks up and the rain makes a soft
I laugh hysterically because you promised me a dance in the rain,
But instead we ended up in Minneapolis traffic high.
My throat burnt with the temporary happiness and nostalgia.
Even now outside on the steps I felt that same familiar burning come back.
The thunder makes a deep yell across the 2:45 a.m. Mural of green and grey
I softly whisper back to it, “Fuck you Karen.”
It picks up faster and faster
The scattered rose petal promises blow away.
The thunder crescendos to a mezzo forte
And my desperation to be free intensifies.
Until finally I cut the strings holding my thought process
In this weeping willow.