I do not know

what you truly think

of me

or of all my dead lovers.

Once they kissed my skin

wrapped me up in denim

cheap corner motels

backseat heaven

kissed them in closets

on gurnies, trust me

you would not care

how I wore my black phase

through my blue one,

how my breasts and legs

led me through lines

free cocktails, drugs,

rides, vip sections,

limos, rock stars.

He said “you are art”

and never read my verse,

but he lived in some kind

of utopia

and locked me out.

I wandered up and down Brooklyn

Bridge, examining initials.

In and out of phone booths

with quarters in my pocket

and collect calls on my mind.

“You are my art” he explained

but I never wanted my dark hair

spread on his sofa

so he could paint me

in various naked poses,

“no,” I said,

“I like…