You are not ruined, you’ve been bruised.
You are not done, you were undone
Drowned without a life preserver
among the ruins and the rocks.
Let me float your boat, my love.
Take you to a higher ground.
You gave it all, and asked for nonesuch payment
but not to be fucked over in deception.
But let the only ruins here be rocks.
Keep moving Melvina, don’t get stuck.
Be my mad Melvina! Not that sad Melvina!
Let me love you like this, make you strong!
For I indeed am ruined, and I rock.
I hide in make-believe somesuch-loves across the pond.
I run from the boys who treat me nice, feeling the pressure’s too much.
I can see the lies in some men’s eyes and still I try to justify
why I want them gone.
I’ve been used and called really bad names.
I’ve chosen unwisely and played stupid games.
But I’m travelling now to London Town.
I’m accepting offers from the ones who are fun.
I disregard and don’t question my intuition on the sketch
I give wisely, avoid the drama, and keep a level head.

You are a ruin that’s been gutted by and upon a Love you called “My Rock.”
The carnage. Tears. Hurt. Pain. And, the blood.
But Fab Melvina, to higher ground!
Be Glad Melvina, to far beyond!
Relics from disasters are preserved as instant treasure.
You, my love, have character and a story, more so now, than ever.
The sailboats at the harbour-front float like suburban boredom.
You, my ship, my Mad Melvina, are an Explorer:
been there, done that, and seen some.
At the end of the day who’d you rather have near?
The deadbeat drifter or the exploring seeker?
Like James Joyce said at the end of “The Dead”
‘better to pass boldly into the other world in the flight of some full passion than to dwindle slowly with age.’

This, my love, is called feeling.
Capsizing like a drunken ship runaground is nothing more than reeling.

© Sylvie Hill 2013

Painting: Andreas Franke