She's sixty-five percent Bob, a third
Annie, five percent legit. The coy façade she attempts,
The silhouette veil that you see,
Is a fancy French term for there's no fucking way
I am letting YOU get to ME.
She'll accept the lyrics of a foolish song, smile
At the idea that love can conquer all. Maybe it
Can happen. Maybe it has happened. Maybe it's
A pin on a nun, from a story written hundreds of
Years ago. She'll gush over flowers, especially
Fire and ice; Nabokov's opposing images—
Existing only in contrasting frames. You'd
Have to be there though, to understand.
It feels like bipolar disorder and tastes
Like strawberries and dirt.
She writes about fucking and pain and
loss—
The absolute emotions that can paint a soft
Summer night black, blue, a pale shade of
Red. She is inspired by the pace of life, the same
Heart that beats these days through the next, convulses
Her soul into a pen, into a dream that is closer to real.
Her bed is her home, nemo her heart.
She has addictions and insecurities. She could care
Less about fixing them. She is proud of her
Will to just deal with it. She's stunning when she smiles,
Her outward fierceness diluted to a velvety virtue. She
Sees through your phony demands and mocking tendency,
Referring only to herself as cute, though a near beautiful
Devastation, wrapped up in her own paper bow.
Don't ask her to quote herself, just listen. She emits
Hilarity and unintentional humor. She has forgotten what
She just said. Yeah, it's that good. Take notes, my friend.
Maybe ask her for the time. She is that woman in a crowd,
Smiling to herself, in quiet desperation. Someone you may
Never get the pleasure of knowing.