Dear John (Drafts 1-4)
Dear Bluebeard—Yes, this means I've found your cache
of body parts. You promised me! You swore!
And still you’re hoarding pornographic trash.
I’m gone. No need to hide it anymore.
Dear Dr. Frankenstein—I can’t compete
with patchworked fantasy. My flesh is real,
and therefore flawed. You only want its heat
to animate your scavenged, fused ideal.
Dear Don Quijote—Dammit, don't pretend
I’m Dulcinea! Love me as I am,
not as you wish I were. I can’t ascend
that pedestal...nor tolerate this sham.
Dear John—This isn’t working. You know why.
Go buy yourself a blow-up doll. Goodbye.
Last edited by Julie Steiner; 05-22-2009 at 01:33 AM.
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