my heart’s out fishing
for compliments from
someone who forgot it
four years ago.
you won’t get off
the floor, claiming to be
“sick” and I gotta wonder
whether it’s me you’re
sick of trying to please.
I could be your girl—
everything about that
seems right, but my
inner organs are set
on tormenting me.
on a future summer day,
I’ll be walking along and
the two of us will discuss
how all this shit could have
been avoided.
