I wrote the first

at fifteen;

decorated a composition book

with pictures of bands

I'd barely heard

and stickers

and poorly drawn pictures

of the dispensable teen

I aspired to be.

The pages filled quickly:

doodles and ghastly,

God-fucking-awful

rhyme schemes,

silly suicidal banter

masked

as creative writing.

A few of those composition- keepers later,

(and a few unwanted views

of their revealing innards)

the words got bigger.

The rhymes gave way

to rhythm.

The banter

became a dialogue

between the reader

and

their self.

I could hide my heart

in plain view.

I found

I had been trying

too hard

to force words

into art.

The words came

when Poetry,

in her graceful,

welcome,

deceit

told me

I belonged to her.

The ties that bind,

Me to you.

The invisible allures,

The tangible needs,

The painted teasings,

Our innuendo dreams.

The lies that cut,

Me from you.

The hidden rendezvous,

The real deception,

The cutting betrayals,

Your revealed cruelty.

The last tie that bound,

Me to you.

It came undone,

Then there were none,

Save one...

It was me.