Crushed

My first crush was a statue: strong and silent, noble to a fault. Realer

than the dead general he memorialized, for his triumph was far less fleeting.

He kept his chin up no matter what, weathering every pigeon. His head

was like a moon, blotchy with seas. As for me, I didn’t want to be seen

with my head of a beast like an ass-backwards sphynx. Small dogs assaulted

the space I’d left intentionally absurd, uniformed like a unisex fireplug,

gruff as a gryphon. I huffed glue till my syntax collapsed and I came unglued.

A war blew in and they drafted my soldier, melted him down and cast him into shot.