Dear 50 yards deep,

AI wrote this poem for you,
we both hate you:

it could have been red,
you said,
but that part was never so much fun anyways.

fun.

i guess my scalp wasn’t
a metaphor you could swallow.
guess my mouth,
full of promises you didn’t make,
wasn’t a playground
just a liability.

it could have been red.
you could have
held the strand between your fingers
instead of
snapping it mid-song,
like a pickup line you forgot halfway through
but said anyway.

you never saw red.

you saw something
you could quote
but never name.

the part that was red
was the part you couldn't **** without feeling something.
and that’s why you folded it
into a lyric
instead of a life.