In One we met. The conflict
was my old one, love. I had it for him.
He had it for him, too.

In Two the conflict entered stage left:
another woman. There was some lively dialogue
to represent sex.

In Three he chose against me—the other girl
had some get-up of veils, and smoke wafted in from the wings
when she appeared. Even I was beguiled.

The intermission offered no relief;
I spent it locked in a bathroom,
lying on the comfort of cold tile.

In Four I walked around a pretend meadow
as I monologued on and on
about how hard it is to be me—­

it's what I thought a sad girl
is supposed to do for her audience.

In Five it was over,
and the audience filed out, orderly;
the cast shared cabs to the wrap party.
By then, everyone had either been murdered or married.