fucking in the bushes

"fucking in the bushes"

scribbled a notbook
went flipping back
found your name
next to a whiskey stain, and a star

strangled my anger, went back, rewrote a poem
about the day you hit me
at westlake, and i remember
laughing, as you walked away

sipped my coffee, frowned, and thought
about that day, you told me to wait
i tried to stay away
i had been drinking, and didn't want another fight
damage is damage, and it never lands the way we think it will

startled into stories, i will
put my pen down, and pick it back up
i draw old lovers back into lies, i could never fix them
in fiction, i am a beggar
in fiction, i am safe

There is only one other person who could maybe know the truth behind this poem. This is a mingling of true stories with false and I doubt that person will ever even read this, so I'm safe.
I found it in a notbook, yesterday. I remember when I wrote it I didn't think much of it but when I reread it I thought I should do a re-write and give it a title. I changed a decent amount of stuff, made some stuff truer, and I like it.
I'm not explaining the title, either.
And now! On to anthropology homework.