When I am sad,

I listen to trap music

And drink protein shakes.

I lose twenty pounds;

And wake up on Monday mornings

Without hitting snooze.

The real problem is

I tend to hand my heart out,

Serve it on silver platters

To people who would rather

Smoke it through a crack pipe

In the McDonald’s handicap stall

Off the Hampton overpass.

Nothing fucking special, ever.

At least there are disco balls that fill the void;

close your eyes and count to ten to see them.

Mama this, mama that,

Mama wants a break.

You know?

Buy me a five dollar burrito box and I’ll smile.

It’s not hard to please me,

Yet no one ever has.

I pick the ones who like mirrors.

Many many many many mirrors,

Never eye contact.

They like to hit it from the back,

Because if they see me

Like see me, see me

they will know I am more than

Bargain bin flesh.

Hell, I don’t even make them wear a condom.

Something about yearning for closeness;

If my therapist is reading this my troubles are deeper than we both imagined.

I crave cigarette butt kisses

And being called a slut

Rather than I love yous and flowers.

Actually, I don’t crave anything

at all.

I settle.

I settle for boring word games and mindful matters.

Five things you can see,

four things you can touch,

three things you can hear,

two things you can smell,

one thing you can taste.

I taste gin and tonic.

No, Ginger beer.

No, Spearmint.

No, dulce de leche.

No, I taste nothing at all.

Once a boy told me he loved me.

Once a girl told me she loved me.

I told them both, tough luck because I don’t love anything,

I fixate.

The candle aisle from TJ Maxx is the only thing that I return to consistently.

And negative bank accounts.

Maybe I will be one of those cool girls that reads Nietzche and writes like Plath.

One of those cool girls who ignore comma rules and pretends to smoke menthols

Outside bar corners.

Like beret minus the beret.

No, no I will be one of those classy girls. Chanel No 5 girls.

I will be a country club daddy wallet nabbing and pearl toting girl.

I will be the marry a Wallstreet bummer on a summer day in mid-July girl.

I will be your girl, only your girl, daddy.

Girl, girl, girl, just a m-fing girl. Watch your language, girl.


Don’t you know, I make moonstones out of moonshine?

Plenty of loaves to go around, no water to wine

here though.

I say,

Rewind the film,

Pause on the part where Harry actually met Sally,


And call me Sleepless in Seattle on a Saturday night.

None of it is real and none of it matters

Because bic lighters burn my broken thumbs,

Goddammit, Tj Maxx.

Now wind me up

Like one of those three dollar toy chattering teeth

and watch me hop away

From how I feel

About losing you.

Thank god, some rest at the Goodwill.