All insipidly wavy inside of me
like the texture of my hair
yet you reach for it.
Some songs can bring me
to the edge of the sea
ready to plunge,
others suck my soul bare
Pain pulling each string
piece by piece.
Most women love to gas up, pile in the bags
pretend they are content
and read Fifty Shades as if it’s a masterpiece.
I do roll my eyes, and admit I am
a literary snob. Don’t hug
me unless you are ready for the
studded belt. Don’t kiss me
either, my lipstick stains. Don’t emoji
me, I’m not sold on it. But thank you
for the laughter,
as much as you take
away me essence
you give it back in abundance
I am so topsy-turvy in love
regardless of what I write
or how clever you think I am
you never need to read it. Pretend
I do not write. Let me smoke and
drink wine discussing art and all
I look forward to, nothing I’ve left
unscathed. Rumors unfurled,
denying everything but the way the
smoke exhales
I love it when you love me
for myself and nothing else
you hate me so passionately
it is what I need. Both in one
day, in one sentence. You only
know.
it has kept me invincible
to men who try to sneak in
between my monologues.