she bites her thumb at me.
like Mercutio.
because I represent the world.
and the world is negligent.
in painted pants she dances.
to St. Vincent songs.
whispers her desire.
to die in my eyes.
despite me beating her to it.
hoping for a boring August.
but interrupted by good news.
and good sex.
she is a 10.
but thinks she is a 4.
says she is a 6.
and is really sad and funny.
a closet alcoholic.
and a poet.
she is a Florida 15.
a Cincinnati 17.
we both have blonde dreams.
betting the future will be better.
but we won't be part of each other's.
and that is okay.