Dear to Me

When I really think it over, I want to take you out. You disgusting, self-obsessed piece of New York trash.

You like to think you're good in bed, we all know you sleep alone. You drink only women's beer and pile them on without a drop for anyone else. Everyone around you makes you feel short because, in reality, you're pathetically small as a person.

You have a mean spirited sneer I once understood as ironically attractive. Everyone thinks you're a joke, it was only me who didn't get the punchline. You wear eye cream at night and a suit that stopped fitting years ago in the day. You match your broken shoes you name the price of every time we ask. You walk with a bounce as if you were so excited by yourself. Perhaps you are? (There is someone for everyone, isn't there?) And bite the nails I know you file daily. I guess it is weird that we don't talk; so close you believe you are to me! (Isn't it all of us who want to be close to you, lovely? We run ourselves into the ground every night chasing after your ether!) Oddly enough, you have only a few friends. I guess we simply can't compare to your company!

You feel upset when people are angry at you. You expect me to understand you when you're being your usual bitter self. You think we should adjust to you, with no efforts on your part to join the rest of us. You expect what you don't give. You see yourself as, we, I suppose, should all see you. (Isn't it a drag when it doesn't go that way?) Everything you've done is fantastic. We all wait to hear from you. Nothing is without your judgement, properly so, as, well, you do know everything.

I'll never know what exactly I paid for in knowing you.

(But I think I'm ready for a new billing cycle.)

You have no idea the price you owe.

I look at you and remind myself why I am, and always was, myself.

And for that alone, I'll smile for you.