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Have My Head:

My mother would have my head if she knew what I did.
She’d have my head if she knew what I did.

You were the opposite of elegance, with a trace left of me on your fingertips,
a compromise of body and mind for you.
And everything that I’d been taught turned as black as the hair on the back of your arm,
your olive skin retreated again that night.

So I sat in my car with my head on the dash, waiting for this to pass.

My mother would have my head if she knew what I did.
She’d have my head if she knew what I did.

Visions of you from three nights before haunted me as a slipped out the door,
my rotten judgment rose above me once again.
I spun in my stool hoping that you would give me the attention I was accustomed to,
but it never came, you stayed the same: selfish, unkind and still in my way.

We found ourselves tangled up in words we didn’t mean.
I’m guilty too, but somehow everything meant more to me.