He broke my heart,
the boy with the button-down-collars,
shoes so shiny he could see my panties.
I thought I recovered.
After graduation, waving like royalty,
I left school in a candy-apple-red convertible,
beside a darker version of the heart-breaker.
We married and everything seemed right
until the baby-blues got to me.
I lead death’s hand onto the shotgun.
I was born into a southern gothic,
father mad, obese brother,
with Mother trying
to hold it all together.
Wisely, my husband left town with my son.
Years later, he, my son, looked for me
among my aging in-crowd friends.
The one who killed me said he never knew me.