I am numb with resignation.
It’s easy these days:
I still bear the burden of yesterday’s baggage.
I am a hole of disappointment,
peppered with self-slapped wrists,
it’s my fault. Hope is my problem, not his.
My mind is a mini windmill in the wind
and I am dizzy from all the drama;
I don’t want any of seventeen again;
I like it when it’s easy as Friday night
after the seventh tequila.
You see, it’s dangerous because:
I stopped waiting; stopped taking
the phone from room to room.
You see, I don’t expect you anymore.