this convoluted elementary school history lesson riddled with inaccuracies brought to you by Bravo

the alarm took me by surprise at two o'clock this morning,
interrupting the utter silence with the way it howled through the town,
slow and sad and warning.
I wondered what it sounded like 100 years ago
when British soldiers burned my sleepy little village to the ground,
and I could see men crawling in through the windows
and pulling us out by our hair, me and my sleeping mother, to set our lives on fire.
though I'm sure that isn't how it happened,
it felt real
until the alarm stopped
and I started thinking again about the episode of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills I had just watched
and what a bitch that Lisa Vanderpump is.

in which everything is perfect except for one thing

the way you purposely do things just to make me laugh
and extol the virtues of my features
every time I get sad
and you take me to the zoo on my birthday
(because I fucking hate my birthday, but I fucking love the zoo)
and you take me out so I can finally wear that ruffly nude dress that was too short for my cousin's wedding
and you put on a tie
(even though you'd prefer to just keep your tee shirt on)
and when I collapse into bed,
you take me by the hand and turn on Billie Holiday singing "The Very Thought of You"
and dance around the room
and we stay up all night
until 4:00am when we stumble out to my car
and drive and drive and drive
and finally stop
and I have to pull away without you.