February 4, 2013 § 19 Comments
You’re cheap baby. Like cigarettes, like the love you tried to trade me with.
But you can’t have me. You can’t even know me. Because you are store-bought.
To me—you are pretend.
Make me cry, my eyes will crystal. No tears, no love for store-bought, for my coward named pretend.
Make me laugh, my jaw will widen, no sound will exit. No tone, no truth for store-bought, for my coward named pretend.
Wanna play baby? I’ll play. I’ll even let you win. Because I’m not store-bought. I’m not cheap. Like you, and your friend pretend.
Stop demoralizing yourself to my verbs. Stop subjecting yourself to my pen. Stop making it so easy. Breezy like a sunday morning, the way you hand me material like it didn’t cost you a penny, cheap—like cocaine off the street.
Stop acting store-bought. Stop playing with your friend pretend. Stop making me famous. It’s boring.