She wears mini skirts and vintage motorcycle boots in the December snow
I wear dusty teal Betsey Johnson to dances and you make fun of me
I can't think of a seventeen, which is really only fitting, dear.
She warms your bed every night while I lie shivering in my own.
I'll never be good enough for you, no matter how I try.
Her hair falls down like an oil-laden waterfall
(You need her for some odd reason that I know not of)
While mine falls like a hastily-drawn cartoon
Cut me open and release the bees inside
Let me read your narrative poetry
The sins of pride and lust run rampant
Wound me in order to heal me
Lace me back up with your lies
You are not my David.
You are not blameless.
The obstacle.
Not again.
Go on.
Run.
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