Sorry about the smell, and the ash in the cup holder,
and all the ways that I’ve changed as I’ve gotten older.
Ignore all the dirt and the cigarette burns,
Missed exits on freeways and street names you never learned.
Burnt knuckles were tragic, hearts stricken with panic,
when the highs that you chase started to lose their magic.
I think about the irony of well-intentioned tragedies,
Hopeful mediocrity plagued by constant mockery.
Because I’m the type of girl who picks at scabs until they scar,
Who will love you til you’re better or until you break apart,
Type who never gets the joke, but will laugh at the right part.
And will forget the things they’re made for,
til they don’t know who they are.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s