We are delightfully dull
Like watching Cheers all day in hospice
Probably deadly,
Certainly not dangerous.
Written for the writers.
I have been drinking from
The same cold cup of coffee
It tastes just like yours
Exactly.
It was shitty when it was fresh
It didn’t age well.
Your eyes burn
Like stale cigarettes
I make snow angels in the ashes
Waiting for a breeze to blow the flames out
The surgeon general told me to “smoke if I got ’em”
I didn’t have them, or anything
So I lit us up instead
My lungs filled with you,
It killed me much faster than tar build-up.
I think your parents hated you
Only because I think I wanted
My parents to hate me.
These were stupid mind games
For stupid prizes
Like your heart and my smiles
Nothing I could exchange for
A giant inflatable hammer
Which is what I was in this
arcade for
In the first place.
Our bodies outline a abstract oil painting
It doesn’t mean anything
And we can’t convince anyone
But ourselves
That it doesn’t mean anything.
We’re hung up in a museum
While children walk past us
On a tour with some French asshole
Who insists that we are a still life of “Amor!”
I lay quietly with you
Basking in the afterglow
Of us updating our Tinder profiles
On our iPhones
Knowing the writers will come
To bastardized a perfectly boring story
To jerk a tear from a jerk or two.
White Girl Poetry 