I gave you my authentic dossier
withholding nothing. You preferred the lie
you made me out to not be who I am.
What, you burned my files? Then don’t ask why
that picture you’ve drawn of me looks passé.
You can’t imagine how strong I’ve become.
I’m not one you’ve authority to damn.
You’re not the muse my voices get it from.
I won’t let you decide. No thank you, ma’am.
Past tomorrow, these words too will dry
forgotten as our love’s most stale cliche
eroded, rusted, faded, sterile, numb.
Oh well, find someone else you can betray –
there’s more’n one bird to shoot down in your sky.