Ladybug, revised, and submitted

To you, my darling,
what am I

—your pretty red insecticide)?

If I become a ladybug,
shall I be your savior, love?

or         your

condemner?

I’m thinking and thinking and overthinking—
an answer for

the aphid plague on your garden—

Well, maybe's it's okay.
  and maybe you'll let me loose
because "it's okay, we’reit's okay,"
though I know you know that I know
damn well it won't be that way,
because I

will taint

the nectar you drink

with my futile attempts

to defend the tiny red—
spotted
—lump that is my heart.

(&whenyouaredonedrinkingiwillripoutyours)

                   This poem, oh, this metaphor,

                   it's really little fucking more
    than a caricature of art

       ( like us to happiness, no? )

and I can't do it

I can't do it
, darling.

I can only dream of being a ladybug,

     that lucky little insect who could never possibly comprehend

     the unending agony of ending day after day after day

     looking around her empty little garden to see everything

you've left behind.

I can only dream.
I can only dream (of you).