He says, “It’s like chess.
It’s all about the strategy,
except with these wash-ups,
it’s all about the tragedy,
the bleeding words, the pretty herds
of poet girls who line my streets
for a chance to meet god;
a billion blind ballerinas
with twisted ankles and bruised egos
vying and dying for the opportunity
to serve at my feet
like little missionaries.”
He says, “It’s the way you smile,
my little angel. You’re so beautiful…
Let me see your soul so I can teach you
how to fly. Let me meet your soul.
Take off your halo, babe.
It’s trying to steal your gorgeous shine.
Take it off. Take it off.”
It’s the way his words encourage actions;
the way she fits in his plans,
because she is that one piece that is broken so right.
She tries to smile, holding fast to the idea of pleasing him
and how it will get her into heaven
one day, one day…
She told him, she’s not beautiful
while laying with her heart open and vulnerable,
clinging to the idea of creating something lovelier
than her thoughts could ever be.
And all she had to do is just pull the trigger.
He says, “I miss you,”
when she strays too far
as if to guilt her into staying,
as if to tell her she’s not leaving
and most days she won’t,
because she feels so empty without him
there to draw her smiles.
but he’s no artist,
and these smiles are just shaking lines
meant to tremble and shatter.
Like he wants her to,
and when she’s broken down,
so weak and out-of-order,
she is his. And he is
god, why are you doing this.
What did I do wrong.
He says, “babe, that’s just the way
you play the game.
You take as many points as you can get,
no mercy— and when you win,
you move on to the next challenge;
the next little broken-hearted babydoll.
Sweet talk ‘em and leave ‘em bleeding on the floor
when they’re too broken to play with anymore.
It’s like chess,” he said.
“All strategy and staying two steps ahead
all the time. and when your queen has fallen,
give her up.