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Green Room
source: anothermag.com |
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Purple Jacarandas
source: anothermag.com |
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Pink Hair
source: weheartit.com |
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Blue Paint
source: piccsy.com |
Regret nothing. Not the cruel
novels you read
to the end just to
find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the
dark,
in spite of your
intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your
toes, don’t regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here.
Regret none of it,
not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights
from the carnival rides
were the only stars
you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering
any of it.
Let’s stop here,
under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
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