Anti-Sweetheart Sentiment

When mothers tell their daughters

they were impish little children

the holy simmer of memory

is transformed

to an anti-sweetheart sentiment

I am restless this morning

and all the mornings  

I want to ignore people

and their merriment

I have no urge for salutations

but responsibility nips 

through my undergarments

I have every intuition

to run to dusk

to partner with

the swell portion of the evening

The part drenched in storytelling

If I could sleep through the truth

of my reputation

I could dream it back

the way I want it

I’ve always thought

redemptions should come

in the form of damp little castles

to be knocked down

and built up again