Courtney Queeney: A Partial History of the Anti-Leading Lady
When a girl grows small enough
her body begins to eat its own heart—
for some men, a plus. I existed for X
only when he loathed me,
he was like touching a hot stove
with the burned heel of my hand
to see if I could sear through scar
to curled-in nerves.
Y was public applause, trailing me
like a mariachi band, embarrassing
after a few drinks. Adore me, adore me
is a dangerous song to get stuck humming
and I didn’t want an audience, always.
Sometimes I wanted to shut up
and breathe in the dark, bearing
the various flight-patterns of his hands,
but I couldn’t keep from going back to A,
my Adam, where I began
and ended. When both of us lost teeth
in dreams, the coincidence wasn’t comforting,
I didn’t like our metaphor.
One of us was always boarding a bus,
one of us was always sad.
Maybe his mother was right
to think me a freak, someone
who’d let him leave like that, repeatedly—
and he never got lost leaving—
me, who wanted so much to be left alone
alone, wondering what to do
with the bothersome afterthought of my mouth.
Not running after him forever.