On Chopin's Posthumous Nocturne in c sharp minor

I was 20 and in love with the boy
who looked like Edward Scissorhands.
At goth clubs and raves we danced
like possessed banshees,

all black veils and fishnet
and smudged eyeliner.
While lost girls were getting high on Ecstasy
in the bathroom and Lords of Acid

dripped from the speakers
my mind flew to my piano lessons.
It was an honor to play
the Fantasie Impromptu,

my Polish teacher with her diminutive hands
instructing me to curl and lift
my fingers precisely
and how I cried in silence at my failure

sucked in my stomach
when I saw my reflection in mirrors,
I was forever ugly
and never thin enough.

Because this thing was taking root
inside me
it was the color of gnarled-gray skies
and the tender pink of gentle suffering

the crimson roses I'd sewn feverishly
onto black top hats

it tasted like so much yearning
like the honeyed spice of clove cigarettes
I smoked going 60 down the ocean road
razor scars hidden under my sleeves

The Jesus and Mary Chain singing
it was the hardest walk to take

and I wondered about you and me
if you could ever love me
like Chopin loved George Sand

or Sid loved Nancy