I wasn’t the girl you wanted me to be. Although, I sure did look the part:
a brunette in wedges and fishnets who met you at a dive bar on the East Side.
We made some conversation, not one about my age.
Instead, you talked about yourself and joked about John Wayne.
———————————————————————————————————————————–
But you are not John Wayne, and I am not Judy Garland.
We don’t ride off into the sunset. Instead, I cry in a garden
of horrors. It’s the place where the lonely red roses grow,
and every girl who makes it out ends up alone.
———————————————————————————————————————————–
In my worst nightmares, I’m standing outside the Candy Shop,
crying on the sidewalk in Brooklyn.
A moment in time—
where only I could remember
the night you refused to come out and talk.
—————————————————————————————————————————-
I always wake up before freezing on a cold September,
or maybe it’s May
when we’re back in your apartment on the corner of Saint Marks.
You’ve got a bloody nose,
I’m drinking rosé in the bathroom.
At first, the duality fits, as it’s all fun and games.
But we paint the tiles blue without saying a word.
———————————————————————————————————————————–
I leave in a taxi cab, and it feels like a curse.
I should’ve lit a match to burn the place down;
at the very least, it’s what you deserve.
——————————————————————————————————————————–
The worst forms of violence are the ones without apologies.
Flashbacks of love get dotted with a question mark
from a lack of forgiveness
for the scars you left.
There is no happy ending in this.
You wanted silver-screen romances. I got a narcissist.