Every night I hope
I find my message in a bottle,
but really it's just to sext
this hex away. Monday
nights are lonely on
that hook-up culture,
Juvenile Tinder App--
Swiper no swiping, but
I'm still that little girl
cowering from the screen
where someone will definitely take
my soul valuables
But if these be masochistic flames
to my emotional Hell--
Rage on, commence the *******
parade, their drumbeat matching
my bleeding-heart
attitude transposed into cryptic Finsta
posts and 3am Snapchat stories.

You made me feel like Lana,
fervid and fated in
a ride or die façade which
crumbled to Taylor's fake femme
fatale "narrative." Ripping
off the wings of  our swan song
doesn't make you Frank Sinatra, even
though you crooned a tune of Love and Marriage
in between my sheets; those were odes
to blanket you (not me).