If I were to die he would write a character about me;
a girl he thinks he knows.  

Dream Girl would listen to funky music
and send him the ones with bass.
She would always pick up the phone when he called
and never cry to his face.  

She’d tend to every problem,
prescribing remedies in the shape of her best advice.
She would send him pictures
after only a couple days of being nice.
She would have been his;
only desirable when he decides.

This version of me lives within his head,
and in his phone at night while he
is between the cold sheets of his bed.

Dream Girl wouldn’t be lonely to the bone,
she wouldn’t laugh at his ****** apologies
or be holding on by her fingertips to anything
that feels like a home.

She wouldn’t be aware of his patterns,
like how the women he dates are thin.
She wouldn’t see him desperate to stand out,
but dying to fit in.
And she sure as hell wouldn’t be ******* a man
9” taller and 4” longer than him.

If I were to die he would write a character
about a girl he plays with like a rag doll.
Looking down on her without ever wondering
what could have made her that small.
Never to realize that maybe,
he never really knew her at all.