Does he love me?
I ask this perfectly round seer.
Outlook not so good, it replies,
no remorse whatsoever.
I shake it, and ask again,
louder this time.
Does he love me?
My sources say no, it sneers.
I hold back tears,
my future wrapped in this plastic hell
that I shake and shake,
hoping for words that make sense,
that will validate and coddle me.
My heart is too soft for this cruelty.
I will trick it, I decide.
I hold it, my hands trembling,
giving me away.
I put my mouth to it.
I am close enough to see
the small, dull cracks
on its shiny blackness.
Serves you right, I whisper to it,
for messing with people like this.
One more question
and I’m done with you.
He will never love me?
(I giggle at my trickery)
Without a doubt, it taunts,
no shame or regret.
I gently touch those words,
then hurl it against the wall,
hoping to shatter it,
this crystal ball wannabe.
Fuck you, I say,
and rise to pick it up,
assess the damage,
proud of my small act of violence.
Yes, definitely, it mocks.
I walk away,
thinking maybe I’ll flip a coin.
Burlesque Press 