by Isabel Crabtree
You bury your grief in another woman,
but you keep the shovel just in case.
Right when things are good, you jump ship
to keep your feelings safe.
One day the women won’t come easy.
You’re having fun, but the party ends.
You’ll be sitting in a broken recliner
with an empty bottle and a couple of shitty friends.
Something will catch your eye—a picture, a cloud, a familiar melody.
It’ll remind you that you’re weak;
the treasure that once boarded your ship
was traded for something cheap.
You’ll settle for the fool’s gold,
because to you it shines the same.
But that pesky voice inside your head
will have only you to blame.