I’ve been sitting here for weeks,
and this is the first time you’ve noticed me?
Do you think I like being under this teacup?
I’m terrified; it’s dark and cold.

You’re out at your party,
and all I can think about is my wife,
all alone on the web back home just waiting for something, anything, to fly by.
It’s all a joke to you though, you sick man.
And would you believe that I climbed into a man’s suit,
got on a plane, flew all the way from Europe,
and lived with Johnny Depp for a while?
No, no you wouldn’t—
you work at NASA,
you drive a corvette,
you are dating the Aphrodite of your age
and it’s all not enough.

So let me tell you about me:
I’m not like you or him or anyone else here.
I don’t own shiny medals or have my own talk show,
I’m just looking for a chip in a cup,
some little imperfection that will set me free.

I’ve been thinking how I like
smooth jazz
poptarts
gushers
wheat thins.
I have hundreds of kids I’ve never met,
and a home in your bedroom window.

But none of that matters anymore
because I’m trapped under this ridiculous cup
and it’s dark, and I’m cold.
I’m beginning to think I should just give up.