He was very responsive to my ancient Oriental ways of love,
all of which I invented myself, just for him.
			- M. Butterfly

The fat man at the tattoo parlor
said he could carve your name on my back.
I liked the pain like you
did because it was exciting to suffer for you.
I thought I could wear you like a hairshirt--
how romantic,
collecting my tears in sleeves
woven from your brown hair.

What a good girl you sang
in my ear and your breath
shot down my throat
so I could taste the fantasy,
warm and fluffy in my mouth,
fluttering,
unsatisfying.
Strange, I never saw myself as a stereotype
before.  I met you 
and I wouldn't have cared if I'd known
you couldn't wait to crush my wings,
because I wanted to kneel before you
and be your midwestern boyÕs dream.

So the tiny needle tapped out my faith while
you held a cigarette to my lips and whispered 
my name the way you do when you want me 
to play along.  You said you'd get one
to match, maybe next week, you said.

Three years later I found out
it was a mistake.
He told me it would last forever,
but before long it began to fade.

Because as hard as I tried, I couldn't be your
geisha, china doll, buy-me-drinkee bargirl.
I'm six feet tall, I have big feet,
and there's nothing ornamental about me.

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