She looks at me
Eyes narrowed
Head tipped sideways
Lip curled
And snarls at me in a way
that manages to sound so condescending
that  If I was a fool
(a different one then I already am)
I could mistake it for concern
"I really don't like the person you're becoming"
I nod my head so fast it practically rolls off its base of my neck
so sarcastic
I smile so wide That my lips crack
and my teeth bulge from my mouth
so mean
and flip her off in the best way I know how
With words and a ******* to match
she doesn't even care anymore
And the worst thing is I don't.




"I really  don't like the person  you're becoming"



"me either"

An empty room answers me.

Think that the dolls in houses
get mad
or depressed
shoved in closets
untouched till the day they are shoved into the attic?

I opened my doll house
and all that I found
were porcelain skins
sprinkled dust
on the plastic

they got out

give me a tickle
trip
taste
of what it feels
to have your face
an inch from mine

i wonder if i would still like your nose
or your smile
or if you'd like
mine

it's very hard to be a successful poet without being in love
and i haven't been in love since
....
maybe it was ryan
but i don't know if that was love or not
i think it was more like
wishful thinking
i have been determined to find my own bravado
ever since

i like boys that use pretty words
and think deep thoughts
but i would never want anything more to do with them
other than the small attraction i give sunlight and water to
every once in a small while

i am slightly worried about not being in love.
at my age
with my gender,
that is one's occupation
i can rightfully fail school
if it is in the name of love
they might even make a romantic comedy about me
if i do all the wrong things just because i am moonstruck

i would ask you to fall in love with me
to give me an excuse
but to be honest...
i can't be bothered.

My old boyfriend
used to wear a very
particular
(yet very commonplace)
aftershave.

Now and again
I'll catch a molecule
of it in the air -
in a club
or a lift
or a supermarket,
and it doesn't comfort me
at all.

No, no,
it doesn't comfort me
at all.

It’s like crossing paths with a ghost.

I found it so jarring
that it
inspired me to swap
my usual cologne
for a lesser known one,
which I mix with
another
uncommon fragrance
to create
my own
blend.

Girly?
Indeed.

But if I die
no-one will ever
be startled
by my ghost.

(Not unless
they know
which colognes
to mix.)