Elevator Crush

of course!
that's why he hasn't asked for my number...
he's married!
and i'm just a feast for eyes.

"have a beautiful day," he says.

"thanks. you too. i love you."

everyday, everyday, every minute.

Who Is It?

I know you’ll write about me.
You’ll pay homage to me with dying ink
because there’s just too much going on to use a new pen.

And it’ll be your best poem yet!
(Then you’ll forget.)

Just Go!

The trouble with worrying so much about your security in the future is that you feel so insecure in the present.

Harlan Miller

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

The last time I hooked up with a man, he held me tightly and asked, with great shock and passion:
"My God, why are you single?"
I looked into his eyes,
smiled,
and slapped him in the face

Not hard, of course
I did it playfully
I wanted to do it hard though
I wanted to stab him, in fact
But we were in my bedroom and I didn’t have a knife

Do Something

We lose the right to complain when we don't do anything to stop the things that bother us.
That's my opinion and I'm sticking to it.

Here's an inspirational tune to set you free.

Conflicts

Why are the assholes more appealing than the Romeos?
Why are we so annoyed with those who are willing to keep us safe but passionate about the stupid hoes?

Why is it the boy
and never the man?
Why on earth do I crave everything about a rebel
when a piece of gold would benefit my hand?

Why does it hurt so good
if he doesn’t care or wish me well?
Why does it bother me if he doesn’t send me to hell?

Rabbit Hole

I'm always someone's test but never someone's prize
The further I sink into the rabbit hole
the more I see he can't be mine.

I met a man I thought was right. We connected. It was more than anything I've felt for anyone in a long time. It came by surprise. I didn't ask for it. I didn't expect it. I didn't want it. Certainly, I've written many things about my locked up heart. If you know me, you know I don't want love. But, boy, I wanted him so much and I'm surprised at myself for feeling like so.

If you notice, I'm writing in past tense here. You must be wondering what happened. The truth is, I don't even know. My adoration was short-lived. He's gone now. He's taken actually. Seven years! I didn't know.

Yeah, that's right: I fell for a guy who's already in love. That's never happened to me before. I'm not sure how to process all this exactly. I don't want to disrespect his partner so I have decided to stay away. I'm mad though. Because he didn't let me know! He didn't tell me immediately. Maybe he thought he didn't have to? Was he ever really flirting?

It was probably my imagination. I tell myself this because he's too special to be cruel. He wouldn't misguide me on purpose. I don't know him all that well but I don't think he would knowingly tease someone's heart. But who's to say, honestly? He did a bad thing by not telling me he was practically married, that's the very truth. Because, even if he didn't mean to, he totally fooled me. He was so sweet with me! He seemed to want me. We connected. There was fucking electricity, I thought!

But I misread. I misinterpreted his delightfulness, his stupid misguided delightfulness. Where was his goddamn map? He sent it the wrong way! Maybe he's just got so much fucking charm he doesn't know what to do with it or how to handle it. Charm is like a dog. It's got to be trained and handled properly or it'll go and bite the shit out of someone fast. "Where does it go? Who wants some? I have lots!" he must say. He's so dangerous.

I know because I really do know.

The Counterfeit Slut

I've got a sign on my shirt that reads:
"I put out but I won't commit."

Guys like that
'cause they enjoy a man who's there when they're just passing by
—a quick go, then let go

and they always leave with a smile on their face
so long as they don't see the stupid tissue box under my bed when they reach for their shoes right after

I Bet You Think This Post is About You

If I write about an eager bee,
I bet you’d figure out a way to make it about you

If I write, for example:

"The bee buzzed and buzzed and landed on my nose
I swear I heard it cry
And so I slapped my face with two hard blows
And watched the bee fall in my chai."

you’d sob and ask me later:
why are you writing about me?

Tick Tock

I’ve got to watch what I say,
or figure out a way to say things at the right time.
Is there a calculator to help orchestrate proper timing?
I never seem to know when to go.