Regret

Once I played a game with myself—

Russian Roulette with a werewolf

And a silver bullet, oh yeah.

A rebel and I’m so bourgeois.

I was hoping the freak would die

And stop the dark—kill the hi-fi

Reputation—the stereo

Of my life; so damned scary, though.

In university I sold

Myself—lonely—for the fool’s gold

Of your anonymous embrace.

I was what I tried to replace.

Arrested thrice for shattering

Porcelain faces; battering

The dolls was all so tall when I

Was really so small, a small fry.

Little white lines—I stut-stuttered

Across the floor—bread and buttered,

Endowed with spoiled funds from dad.

Dangerous me, madder than bad.

Consummately abandoning

And constantly a bad old thing,

I opened my wrist and I felt

That the drink was my safety belt.

Seven deaths and several tests

Have blanketed my manly breasts.

Barrel-chested—barrel facing

Me—well-rested, feral pacing.

You may be astounded—confound

It—I am perversity crowned;

A wanton whore, a fatherless son—

Absolutely no regrets. None.