Girl, you can’t keep treating love
Like kindergarten.
It’s not time to play with plastic hearts,
Or treat rolling in the mud with the same
Respect that you show the ice cream man.
I don’t care if love is already
Messy like Hiroshima and Pompeii,
The walls don’t need your handprint,
Covered in the blood from
Some poor boy’s heart,
All over the walls.
You crawl along the floors
Swallowing the shiny silver pieces,
Of stranger-sex and even stranger dreams,
And call them romance.
But sex is slapping glue
On that random soul you find.
But when you leave in the morning,
He rips a piece of your laughter,
And you rip a piece of his wife.
Your heart has been slowly carved and
Hallowed out like a Jack-O-Lantern
That makes a very disappointing thud
When some thug smashes it against the concrete.
Now Girl, I’m not saying that
You need to color inside the lines.
I’m just saying that you have to stop
Shoving crayons up your nose
To try to draw hearts
On the gray matter of your brain.