She sings to herself
Her own suicide
she survived,
and cancer.
She survived the butchers
slicing her breast off.
She was a dancer
in San Francisco
at a place where
the ladies dance like that.
The doctors took away
her illness, and life took away
her love.
She wanted to take her own life.
They took that from her, too.
“I am a suicide survivor,”
she would smile and tell me,
between kissing me,
and smiling at me.
They took her sickness.
They took her choice.
I took her sex,
and I kicked her out.
I didn’t deserve anything she had left,
which is nothing.
More than I have.
I have something.
I really believe that
gives
her more than
I. . .
Now she is alone.
Having less than I.
Supposedly.
