One-hundred and Seventy-One: Fix

I smoke like Marla Singer,
the lazy drags of a broken doll.
I am intimidatingly smooth
and charmingly awkward
in a way I cannot understand.

Sometimes I am not natural.
I am weighed down by expectations;
stations of staccato thoughts stain
my mind. Certain people bring it
out in me, I suppose.
He said, you? Shy?
You’re a cowboy in a Mexican bar.
When you walk in, the music stops,
and everyone stares.
How dare you let someone intimidate you.
And he’s right. I can’t quite figure it out myself.
You bite them with a look.
It’s true: let me show you
my testicle collection supreme.

They laugh and they lean into you :
let me fix it.
Is being a woman not enough?
It’s too much for them.
They can offer promises
without fulfilling them.

Well I am tired.
I  am setting in stone.
My heart should sleep now.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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