You know me now
And I guess that’s a less appealing thing to try to love,
a sap of a girl than say the Perfect Woman you dream of,
that you speak of, the woman I dreamt
you’d keep on flatteringly projecting on me,
that impossible-to-find, but oh-so-real manic pixie doll―
she’s far-out there, you know,
just impossible, but—
you’ll find her.
But for now,
I’m not trying to dicker:
I guess I’m usable to you.
I’ve got a chipped bumper.
My engine of a mind needs replacing,
and I’m a loose screw like nobody else you know,
but here I am and you’ll find her—the Perfect.
I pretty pretty promise.
In the meantime:
you’ll keep flowing in,
keep making me
think you want me more, but—
leave me lying on my own floor.
Every time you “can’t wait to see” me, “lovely,”
Now it’s just digital letters: “U want to see me today?” and the like. Oh, well,
I ask you to be straight,
To not drive recklessly with my heart in the passenger’s seat—
there’s no air bag for Goodness sake—
But to hell with it. You insist we just pass the hours
With a stealthy gun and a sour apple, a game of roulette atop my head
for the two of us.
Well, now I do see a mess behind your eyes,
desperate boredom building under your skin.
I’ve got other fates to see before their gone,
Before I’m gone: you know, fuck
my clock’s on my mind too, thanks.
So, every time “Yo” or “Aye”
Erases any day’s chance of a “good morning, sweetness,”
I kind of wish I could just be a bad person
for one hot minute
and zap your little herb garden,
free your goats and baby birds that you herd,
barking at them like they don’t hurt,
but I can’t do that
in fact, two wrongs won’t lift and fly my sublime kite
so, I’ll just cut the line.
But, no matter—
We don’t gaze-goodbye now,
arms wrapped around.
You say “Peace,” and I—
What can I say?
You aren’t mine, anyway—
I say “see you,” of course.
You said you wanted to be real, but
You know me now.
Sometimes it’s like I’m a ghost texting you
And whenever you want to make pretend
Then, here I am, aren’t I? You respond.
Coast on in.
Drive that blue cruiser, baby.
Come back with that
sashaying through my door
with arms wrapped around again.
But now what’s real to me
Is that you can only feel like a mannequin posturing
with flirty words and a painted-on grin
assuring it never left that chiseled façade. Well,
thanks for calling my poem-letter cute. Well,
Thanks for that, but I know, actually.
But you’d be leaving soon enough anyhow knowing
I feel confounded
you’ve had your share of trials,
your share of trying tribulations,
So, do it anyway.
Do it again while you dare, damn it
While you think you deserve to use a person.
So much for being a cute alt couple:
I told you I cut my hair short;
I saw your dreadlocks running for the hills.
So, I guess my “city ass” is just too fabulous for you.