Do you remember that time

we were picking blackberries by the side of the road

and you said you would still try to save her

if you had the chance, even knowing

that she was half-crazy, and one quarter mean,

because she was oh-so tragic

and completely hot?

 

I don’t say all the things I think to say

nor can I think of all the things I want to say

in a moment like that, when you are fixing to sleep with me

but still banging on and on about the one who got away.

 

Got away? You dodged a bullet, when

she didn’t give you herpes and screw all

your friends and accuse you of rape and

break your things and make fun of you

behind your back, but still, you are so wistful

that you never got to fuck her.

 

And I think, but do not say

that all men must be fools

because, like a trail of ants to a trap

you march on eagerly where other have fallen

and think the safe one sour

and the poison one sweet,

and that, anyways, the same fare will always be there

for you to come back to.