poems in my grave

Will you throw your poems in my grave?
Or will you publish all my letters under your own name?
Will you forever hide yourself away,
Or will you one day come to me and let yourself be tamed?

If there’s a hell and I end up there
Will you lead me out with a song?
Or will you pretend that you don’t even care,
And tell everyone that I had done you wrong?

Would you forsake me for a chance at fame?
Would you still love my songs even if no one knew my name?
Are you afraid of me because I let myself be tamed?
Will you throw your poems in my grave?

Brand new. Wrote the first line in my head on my walk home from work tonight...and here's the first, and probably final, draft (includes minute tweaks, but essentially this is how it came out).

I read in Sexing The Cherry about some mad Victorian poet--Browning or Keats--throwing all of his most recently composed poems into his wife's open grave upon her death (later he fetched them, but what a gesture!). I really want for someone to love me that much, but am doubtful as to whether or not anyone ever will.

Additionally, the idea of "being tamed" has returned to my work...not that I think mad, messy, fucked-up complicated artist folk should be tamed, per se--the world needs us, traipsing about in all our weird, fucked up glory--but I do believe in being tamed by one person for that person...tamed meaning more of a bending rather than a breaking. Being tamed shouldn't be a beating down, it should be a wearing in, the way one molds one's body to a pair of jeans, or to their pillow or bed. Patterns and habits pleasing to the beloved become more prominent and like second nature, and those that are displeasing recede into the background. Being tamed isn't losing oneself, its becoming more fully the self that you've always wanted to be.

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Ah, fuck, don't read that shit anymore. I'm not even drunk, I'm just a silly girl who wants to be kissed while she isn't looking.