The Singer-Woman

I was 15,

She let me go.

I clung on tight

 

To the teasing and mocking:

I was short, dumb, useless.

Her opposite

In life and in love.

 

She never told me.

I heard from a friend -

I was weird.

Too much.

 

I threw out the photograph.

 

*

 

I was 17,

I let them go.

They clung on tight

 

To the movies and meet-cutes.

I was gorgeous, funny, everything.

Their opposite

In hope and in love.

 

They told me.

I was hollow.

Too little.

 

I threw out the letters, papers, scribbles, drawings, paintings, craftwork, the plush.

 

*

 

I was 17.

I had a dream.

The Singer-Woman was there.

 

My everything

Life and love

Celebrity.

 

She let me in,

But never clung on tight

 

To the laughter and passion.

I was just there.

Her opposite

In hopeless devotion.

 

I woke up and told myself.

Heard it from my bed-ridden head.

I wasn’t right.

Too

 

I kept my love in the ticket box.

 

*

 

I was still 17.

I let myself go.

Never clung on

 

To the girl in English.

Witty, caring, human.

My opposite.

 

She told me nothing.

 

I read Kafka at night,

Suddenly quite unpracticed in walking backwards

And afraid of annoying them all by the slowness of such a rotation.

 

Too much, too soon.

Unglued.

 

I was 18.