There’s no story here.
I let you flirt with me
because I’m lonely.
I let the dinner party go on
as long as I can and then I pull the tablecloth out from underneath
us until I’m the only
dish that hasn’t fallen to the floor.
I don’t think I have it in me,
the fairy tale you’re talking about.
The one where I call you back
and sound like the princess,
all hopeless and helpless in love.
Most times I’m satisfied
with just being wanted,
because I’m still my own and
you still can’t stand it and God,
it tastes good,
the air on the way back to my place, alone as ever.
Give me a feeling. Any feeling.
I’ll chew it up and spit out
tie the tenderness with my tongue
and hand the cherry stem to you,
all mangled and gorgeous.
I talk so much for someone who
has nothing to say.
Yeah, I’m full of it.
Yeah, I’ve already thought about
fucking you in every single
place we’ve walked by and no,
I’m not gonna do anything about it.
But I will call you at three in the
morning and kiss you
until you’re sure something
else is going to happen,
then I’ll say goodnight, belly full
I’m actually vicious.
A sliver of me is stone and that’s the
only place I let you touch because
it’s the only place that won’t
So, okay, maybe there’s a story here.
Maybe it’s not the one I thought
but at least it’s something.