i have no ‘one that got away’ story
because i was always the one doing the leaving
i’m screaming at inanimate objects
while looking for the cure to a disease i’m just imagining
i’d use all caps if i thought you’d really hear me
hobo beers and summer sunshine serenades
young and underpaid lovelies light out into the night
chasing these dreams of love’s first brush with death
caught up in the fiesta i slide seamlessly into a foreign tongue
hoping that someone notices as i metamorphosis
this mortality, this immorality, this fallacy
i think of a metaphor and it’s even too graphic for me
time to turn out the lights on this inner monologue
before it gives the secrets away
