Everybody's Ex

Trauma photographs. 

I always thought I looked tough instead 

of soft and vulnerable. 

Figured the neon sign outside the motel 

went out for good when I turned 

twenty-five. 

Drifters would no longer be invited 

to stop between my bug bitten legs. 

My neon sign forever a lighthouse signal. 

A neurotic keeper of said tower, totally 

having wet dreams about mermaids. 

Just because every girl kiss was a performance

doesn't mean I didn't try to make it mean 

something else for myself. 

I did get to kiss in a tunnel under 

the train tracks once. 

That was cool. 

She liked me for a while before it happened. 

Until she went all Lola and damaged 

my already complex as fuck, 

ideology regarding lesbianism. 

Luckily, I like to have options. 

Easiest is best. 

You can do the crossword and discuss 

politics at someone else's kitchen table. 

In fact, when I'm gone for good... 

my designated spot for home cooked delicacy 

will simply store antiques and vintage toys. 

Special use of the oven and maybe, 

my head will eventually rest in there too. 

I wanna be as pretty as her. 

I want to meet all the rigid scientific merits of 

beauty. 

It looks so easy! 

It beats alleged adorable unfiltered with 

neurodivergent tendency. 

But that shit is a revolving door in one's mind. 

A cyclist stuck in his own purgatory when 

all the fuck wanted was happiness and lifelong 

longevity. 

Before the hit and run indefinitely, 

I had a chance at feeling pretty and 

sustained.