girls don't want cars and money,
girls want to put a CD in the microwave,
light off the mortar in the street before the light turns,
hold your hand while we watch the sparks,
brace myself when your eyes are
all glitter and mare’s tails, the curse of knowing.

in desperation i look for letters i forgot to drown in the sink.
you’re avoiding my gaze, looking down at the carpet when you walk in and
god i wanna be the place you wipe the mud off your shoes.
i want you to look through me. i want strip poker and i want you to be the house.

girls wanna take the m train to get their aura read,
tear a meal apart with their fingers, and have
someone beautiful hold their head in their hands,
as if to tell them it could happen at any second,
as if to tell them they look as beautiful as combustion.

girls don’t wanna get kissed with gum in their mouth btw.
maybe that caffeine gum engineers like.
but no watermelon or shit like that.
i don’t need high fructose slobber spilling into me, i’m all
neon and saccharine through and through as-is,
spitting citric acid and strawberry.
girls just want gums on their gums.

she tells me i look hot but in the way that means stolen.
am i irreparable if i blush.

don’t get it twisted–
it’s not that i keep looking for you,
and tell everyone to stop looking like you
[so much (just a little bit)].

what i’m saying is that nostalgia is tricky,
and deception is really fucking easy.

we hit the 24-hour diner where you can
buy a lotto ticket, the husk of a truck,
a compliment sandwich served open-face.
hell, i could eat.