Forever ago I looked you in the eye And made a promise -- A stupid, stupid vow -- That I'd be your Bonnie If you'd be my Clyde.
You smiled at me -- Crooked, imperfect Utterly charming -- And asked me to lend you a light. A lighter passed between our hands Before a tiny flame illuminated our faces in the dark A silent 'I do.'
From that night on I've had things that other girls Only possess in their wildest dreams And, even then Wouldn't dare say they desired.
I ride shotgun by default In a ******* car Much too fancy to legally be yours. Gifts come in the form Of beat-up leather articles That you once wore Though the lingering shadow of smoke Is hardly enough To mask the hint of drugstore perfume. Sometimes If you're feeling especially charitable These offerings are accompanied by the more traditional heart shaped box -- Filled with bullets, of course-- Or a single deep red rose. For some reason Every flower you pick Seems to have many more thorns Than most of the ones I've known before.
What you seem to consider the best gift of all, however Is your presence. I suppose you think it works both ways When you parade around town Arm slung around my shoulders or waist Smiling like I'm some pricey badge Your signature accessory. Your performance draws attention, of course -- Awe-stricken once-overs Envious double takes Lingering looks that make overzealous Average Joes Trip over their own feet. As far as my own feelings go The envious rush I used to get from the lust-filled eyes of other women Has long since faded But the crawling feeling of some depraved pervert's eyes flitting from you to me And your proud smile, devoid of any visible love Continue to make my stomach twist itself into painful knots.
What all those adventure-hungry good girls don't know Is that I haven't felt as powerful as they do in their dreams In a very long time. What those green-eyed Plain Janes won't understand Is that I am little more than arm candy Your passenger-seat second-in-command Posed like some special edition, leather-donning Barbie doll Instructed to sit still Hold the gun Look pretty. They don't realize That the ache that comes with loving you Feels absolutely nothing like the feeling described In the lovelorn writings they post to their blogs. There's nothing beautiful about it No reward for staying up all night Chest aching Sobbing into a limp pillow in some random hotel room Trying my best to keep you from hearing it. As much as I hate to admit it Nothing you do for me Makes it worth it.
They all seem to forget That it was Bonnie Running from one man who didn't love her Falling into the arms of another Already broken Hoping he might be able to mend a piece or two. They don't realize That it was Bonnie Who **** near got her leg burned off Because Clyde flipped the car. The fault was completely his And yet She was the one who took the brunt of the damage Being reduced to having Clyde carry her around For the rest of their numbered days. They don't stop to think that this is anything other than 'romantic' How unfair it is that the world allowed him to ruin her That maybe -- Just maybe -- She didn't want to be a weapon for him to carry But a self-firing rifle. Something intimidating Unpredictable Never dependent On some hotshot That everybody believes that she was in love with. The idea never occurs to them That maybe When the two of them went down in that infamous hail of bullets Maybe she wasn't enveloped in warm thoughts of going out in a blaze of glory But anger That she didn't get away with it this time And never would again.
I understand now That For all intent and purposes Bonnie and Clyde are a concept that should have been left behind Way back in the 30s. There is no passion In dying -- On the inside or the outside -- Next to someone everyone thinks that you love. There is no love In your arm around me Squeezing the humanity out of me Like a man-shaped boa constrictor. There is no glamour In sitting loyally by your side Gripping my seat until my knuckles are white As you drive your own getaway car Laughing to yourself Without ever chancing a glance at me. There is no beauty In being wrapped in a jacket That smells like another woman No satisfaction In mechanically handing you a brand new lighter So you can light another cigarette To prematurely age your beautiful, James Dean number one-million-and-one face. I feel no affection now Watching you smoke up like the nicotine glutton burnout that you are And I will feel only contempt if -- Heaven forbid -- I ever die by your side. You exhale And turn to look at me with sleepy, empty eyes Letting the remains of your cigarette flicker out Just like the novelty of having you around did.
Why I resent those girls now -- The ones with those eyes, so hungry and green with envy -- Is that, when we first met I was just another one of them. So pampered So inanely bored Such a 'hopeless romantic' That I promptly decided to follow you the ends of the Earth To every grimy hotel Even to our demise in the desert, if you wanted me to. It took me forever to realize I deserved better And, by then It was all too late.
While I despise those girls who stare at us now Swooning, like they're so jealous of the position I'm in My heart also aches for them -- A bit like the way you make it ache. Though there's passion in this ache That being the fact That my heart is screaming Telling them to run Run while they still can Run before someone like you Finds them.
For all intent and purposes There absolutely should not be A 21st century Bonnie and Clyde. These should be the days Of girls spitting their own fire And boys fighting their own battles. This should be a generation Of people learning to find solace in themselves And reliance taking an unceremonious dive Off a very steep cliff. There should be no more green-eyed girls And James Dean boys Making each other miserable And calling it beautiful. This is the point where we should let Bonnie and Clyde rest in peace Along with Romeo and Juliet Annabel Lee Homer Barron And every other tragic antihero Who died at the hands of love.
Forever ago I made a promise -- A stupid, stupid vow -- That I'd be your Bonnie If you'd be my Clyde. Now What seems like centuries later I close my eyes And try to fly somewhere else In my dreams. My last thought Before I drift off Is that -- Maybe someday -- They'll write poems about us.