GOD SAVE THE QUEEN BY TERESA R. BRICKEY

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.


Ha!


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,


Resume,


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.