I'm assuming you're a little bit crazy.
You survive on less than $800 a month.
You have six credit cards.
Your dad is a Taurus.
Your mom is a Gemini.
You're a sixth house Aquarian.
You nail yourself to your grand mutable cross
on a regular fucking basis.
You haven't been on meds since 2011.
You want to love your second ex-husband
but you cannot because of television
because of clouds
because of bad reception
and worse chili.
You love most people at least a little bit.
You try.
Bitch.
You try.
You take people out of your phone
and tell yourself,"Fuck them all. Fiji."
You have no friends.
You have a few friends.
You're another weirdo waiting for the 100 Primo
at the park and ride.
You enjoy your purple elephant vibrator.
You haven't been fucked to cigarette smoking satisfaction
since 2007.
Serenade yourself with this song.
Imagine yourself the kind of woman
who inspires such rapture.
There's this.
There's this.
Fuck me bowlegged. THIS.
And this.
And this.
I'm assuming when you were twelve years old
you danced around the garage
your stepdad turned into your bedroom
in Monahans, Texas
watching yourself in the mirrored closet doors
(you were wearing a striped bathing suit)
(you had braces and skinny legs)
to Chicago and Van Halen
and when you were done
you would walk into
the kitchen dripping sweat
and gulp cold water
from a Tupperware tumbler.
You told yourself you were a goddess of some kind
and someday some man would love you
as deep
and hard
and true
as John loved Yoko.
Poor you.
You cried over the original Rapunzel.
The Brothers Grimm.
Not Disney Pixar.
Someday some man would love you enough
to brave the troubled climb.
You wanted to die.
You want to die daily.
The only way to stay alive in San Antonio
is to keep one person in your phone.
If someone new calls
it will be quite
the surprise.
Don't send letters.
Don't lipstick another SOS.
Stamps are a luxury.
Save your dimes for ramen and acrylic paint.
Paint your way out of hell.
Stay in hell with sheets on the window.
When you see a blue orb on the ceiling
it will be a friendly ghost.
Good news.
You'll be a ghost someday, too.
And you can wave at John Berryman and Henry
and if they see you
at last
you'll know
you have become
a real
live girl.
You survive on less than $800 a month.
You have six credit cards.
Your dad is a Taurus.
Your mom is a Gemini.
You're a sixth house Aquarian.
You nail yourself to your grand mutable cross
on a regular fucking basis.
You haven't been on meds since 2011.
You want to love your second ex-husband
but you cannot because of television
because of clouds
because of bad reception
and worse chili.
You love most people at least a little bit.
You try.
Bitch.
You try.
You take people out of your phone
and tell yourself,"Fuck them all. Fiji."
You have no friends.
You have a few friends.
You're another weirdo waiting for the 100 Primo
at the park and ride.
You enjoy your purple elephant vibrator.
You haven't been fucked to cigarette smoking satisfaction
since 2007.
Serenade yourself with this song.
Imagine yourself the kind of woman
who inspires such rapture.
There's this.
There's this.
Fuck me bowlegged. THIS.
And this.
And this.
I'm assuming when you were twelve years old
you danced around the garage
your stepdad turned into your bedroom
in Monahans, Texas
watching yourself in the mirrored closet doors
(you were wearing a striped bathing suit)
(you had braces and skinny legs)
to Chicago and Van Halen
and when you were done
you would walk into
the kitchen dripping sweat
and gulp cold water
from a Tupperware tumbler.
You told yourself you were a goddess of some kind
and someday some man would love you
as deep
and hard
and true
as John loved Yoko.
Poor you.
You cried over the original Rapunzel.
The Brothers Grimm.
Not Disney Pixar.
Someday some man would love you enough
to brave the troubled climb.
You wanted to die.
You want to die daily.
The only way to stay alive in San Antonio
is to keep one person in your phone.
If someone new calls
it will be quite
the surprise.
Don't send letters.
Don't lipstick another SOS.
Stamps are a luxury.
Save your dimes for ramen and acrylic paint.
Paint your way out of hell.
Stay in hell with sheets on the window.
When you see a blue orb on the ceiling
it will be a friendly ghost.
Good news.
You'll be a ghost someday, too.
And you can wave at John Berryman and Henry
and if they see you
at last
you'll know
you have become
a real
live girl.
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