Sometimes after I've
Had a drink or two,
Or a few more,
I convince myself that I can
Find what I want
In the superficial distractions,
Building my ego in faked conversations,
Pretending to be the careless girl
I've never really been able to be,
But pass me one more beer
So I can text every other
Y-chromosome in my phone
And pretend the meaningless
Exchange of dialogue
Even minimally replaces the gross
Urge I repress
To send you the stifled sonnets
That lay dormant at the pit of
My suppression.