The jig is up and I construe.
there is no place for me and you.
I don’t like golf and fear your ties.
to republicans and all their pretty lies.
I’m not afraid of openness.
but you think hiding all is best.
and smile and nod and say half-truths.
I think I’ve tired of your abuse.
and as I relive all the pain.
I realize you are much to blame.
and try to patch up all the holes.
you punched in me, trying to mold.
my soul into some image you think right.
I’ll never be a size eight, despite.
your wish for it to be so.
and I should wrap it up and die.
but I choose to be alive.
a good choice, looking back I can see.
that you were never meant for me.