Stop calling me Special. It’s an insult.
To me and every woman you love(d).
I am not a rare specimen. Or a sale.
I am who you wifed before she accepted sale price
as the only way she was gonna get sold.
Or maybe was okay with you making yourself Enough
but no more than that.
Women I know wear Special so heavy their backs break under it;
discard it in you
and there you are feeling like you’re
some kind of Robinhood to the rescue
knowing full well you are water seeking its own level.
Special, huh? Yet you’re not interested in that kind of investment.
A single is not just a dollar bill.
So can we be honest? You never wanted Special.
You always found Basic easier—
a safe investment. Courted it, sculpted it; set it in your crosshairs.
They say when you shoot, you rarely aim up. Aim straight.
Maybe aiming straight really means that you never trusted
that in aiming up, the bullets wouldn’t fly down and wound you.
Maybe you were better than Basic—better enough to court
Better Than Basic.
Maybe no one made you know or believe it.
Maybe you are Basic. Could be that too.
Or maybe you liked seeing Special on a pedestal,
where it could be admired but never touched.
And we all know pedestals are too small
for more than one person to fit.
Whatever the reason, miss me with Special.
You’ve missed me for this long after all.