she better have a ***** cast in gold,
acres of patience and miles of love.

she better have the perfect bikini line,
never a watch tan, but always on time-
had a good reason all three times she’s cried.

she better have a blonde squad that defends her,
lululemon avengers,
oh- and they all respect
her relationship with you.
but were something to happen,
you know they’d hop on that too.

she better be dorky, in all the right ways.
tan legs and a t-shirt, loses each time that she plays.

and it’s so sad that you can’t take her out
to the bar or the club,
all those ******* guys who see her and think:
mmm, gimme some!

then I can understand
how you could leave me,
sad, and home allll on my own.
because you’re with Venus herself,
and she’s dropping it low.

but- I can’t think about her,
getting mad, letting out a ****, a burp,
or a big snotty sneeze,
because then it’s not that she’s perfect.

you just didn’t want me.

please marry me. please, oh my god, please marry me,
because i have feelings i need to bury in the backyard
of our really nice house on our quiet gated street. i can
give you slightly above average *** and you can give
me your arm around my waist, boring and boring and
steady, a nice "have you met my wife?" to round off
the pleasant evening. we're friends, we're friends, you
tell your stories to an adoring audience, but you're only
looking at me, and i draw the shape of your head over
and over, trying to get it right. we can be alright, isn't
that what we all want in the end? i can give you those
chubby hands, a gummy smile, through the bars of the
crib, and you can be the voice over in the first birthday
party home movie, the proof that it's not just me. i roll
over in the dark and my arm hits you and it's not just me.
and when you get too drunk i can be the stern hands on
the steering wheel of our sensible car, and when i get
too sad, you can help me fill out doctor's office forms.
relation: spouse. tell me we don't have to be in love. i
don't want to be in love, i want the beige place mats, the
suburban nothing, the pb&j cut into triangles, a life of
april tuesdays. we can get a ****** golden retriever and
make our baby wear one of those flower headbands from
etsy and you can say, "i don't think you've met my wife,"
and when i roll over in the dark, you'll be there, boring boring steady, and
we can be alright.