ode to a microphone

you showed up unexpectedly at an ageless birthday party
somewhere in the rocky terrain of my childhood,
presents strewn across my parents basement,
but they could not hide you.
you were the kind of microphone given to little kids
by selfless parents
who must’ve thought that giving smiles to children was better
than the peace of sunday afternoon they had previously known.
you had a stand with multi-colored lights,
and when we stood on my bed
we were just the right height
to be seen dancing in the mirror.
my first love,
it’s no wonder i return to you now,
when there are so many things i do not say
but prefer to send hurdling carelessly toward unsuspecting audiences,
because you shape lies better
than i ever could.
you always wanted to be the center of attention,
with your flashy lights
and rakish demeanor.
you have the attitude i have always wanted.
when i am hiding behind you
singing “lovely rita”,
or telling stories that only i know are real,
the ring around my finger
slips casually onto your own,
and we are married in time.
we have courted since childhood
and now i hold your grown-up curves,
knowing that only
you and i
can make this quiet love.
your hand is the only happiness i’ve known,
mine in yours prevents oncoming sleep,
and the way you grow longer
when i finger you
makes me think that even i
am capable of forgiveness.
i want to press your image
into my skin
that you may live there with me
forever, but i cannot harness
your drunken ridiculosity,
or the unmistakable taste of belligerence
as you direct symphonies in my mouth.
your spirit cannot be fettered
not even by the amps
that give birth to your
coital screams,
or is that me,
turning orgasms into confessions with the flick of a tongue…
please, love, no one outside these walls
understands our sado-masochistic relationship
and they will call it domestic violence when you love me,
because i cannot explain
the bruises you have already left.