political theater

By Claire Cartwright 

“it’s called resurrection, kid”
you thought i’d never know
but it’s all i can think about.
i tried to keep your head above water
as you held mine down, but now
my lungs are full of salt
and can only exhale.
i’ll try to forget your name
before my hearse becomes a home,
but i know if i saw you again,
i’d smile through gritted teeth
and watch lies dribble off your tongue
so enticingly i’d almost believe them.
i’d guess your charades so well
an eavesdropper might mistake us
as common cohorts, but our scarred backs
and hidden hands are all we have left in common.
so i hope that when you think of me,
you think of me as the girl
who you couldn’t drown.

dead currency
i was nothing more than a shinny penny.
something for you to show off
and carry with you everywhere
yet never to be spent.
something as pretty yet devalued as i am
is only meant for show.
you say i’m your world
so i must be pluto,
your glorious goddess of death,
because you brush me me off your cold shoulder
and abandon me like an after-thought
yet i’m still expected to orbit around your radiance
and be a part of your universe.


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