You ask what I'm thinking, and I give you
Some line I wrote in freshman English.
Then you sit there telling me I'm so insightful,
But, God!—I've got you fooled.
I am not special or interesting or
Different;
I am a girl who reads poems
(Far too much Bukowski) and
Lets the flicker of the TV lull her to sleep.
Night after night it's some new hero telling a girl with big eyes he loves her,
And then they're living 'happily ever after'
Like it's some place you can drop by for a postcard and a bite to eat.
It's *******.
Still, look at me—I eat it up,
Let it sink so deep that it digs through my bones
Until I'm practically made of the stuff.
And the worst part is, I'm running around spouting all this fairy-tale garbage,
Like maybe if I say it often enough, it'll come true.
But, of course, it never does.
You never burst through the right door, and I never cry into the crook of your neck.
I don't love you, and you only think you love me:
The ***** who reads Bukowski.