let me buy you a soda.
November 20th, 2011 § Leave a Comment
You don’t know anything about me.
You don’t know that I once didn’t eat for two weeks and didn’t sleep for twice that. Come back when you can talk to me about the flannel sheets and the chapped cheeks and can you even speak English? Can you even talk?
(You have brown eyes but in my head they’re green like mine were supposed to be.)
I have a scar that stretches across me but no one ever sees it. That sounds like it should be a metaphor but it’s not. I also have a tattoo and no one sees that either but it’s there, trust me, let me tell you about it in my cursive voice and block letters that stick in your ears. (I would ask you to tell me about yourself but you can’t even get the words out.)
Do you know anything about women?
I believe in homicidal ghosts but I don’t believe in you.
