A pretty girl is never the full story.
She is the mystery hidden between the lines
that makes you ponder unnecessarily
on the meaning behind simplicity;
placing words and ideas and thoughts
into text which denies it.
The rapist of design,
you try and try your luck
in hope that your unsystematic analysis
provides you with insight on a golden platter.
You sit there, hand under chin and eyes to the sky,
marveling at the ambiguity and deception
of the mascara of falsehood.
She casts herself away on a boat
filled with harlotry and absinthe,
as your shadow grows longer.
Her cigarette holder holding her cigarette holder,
she wildly waves in the wind,
protruding into the prospect of your perspective,
staring down from her stoops, smirking slyly.
Conning the casual casualties of her calamity
who kneel in desperation.
out of her bubblegum flavored bubblegum,
like a form of narcotic;
wrapping wickedly around the cold, dirty
railing that leads down to the subway.
There, it smells of piss and beer,
and you run to escape from both yourself and the homeless man
to whom you refuse to spare change.
You consider jumping,
knowing that the last train left with her.
If she were a loaf of bread,
you’d eat her hastily.
The whole grains would fill the holes in your heart wholly,
piercing the gaps between your teeth.
Leaving you to your own despair, unable to rid yourself of the torturous seed.
Like an attempt at escaping a buried coffin,
your nails would break and fall off,
and the farm animals would wonder why you didn’t help
bake the bread which you so greedily ate.
You now crave an escape
to wash down what you stole.
Inauthentic conclusions tear at your throat,
a flawed thesis is the end.
Heartlessly, you heat your milk
to soothe the damage you have done,
and separate yourself from her.
Knowing that guilt will overwhelm you,
you keep her anyway because you’re running out of time.
And telling a false story of a pretty girl
for attention and nothing more,
is better than taking the time to see
what she really looks like without the bag
you put over her head.
Why are you so desperate to love her,
when you can’t even see past what you
want to see?
Your selfish eyes are tired and sore,
in need of a break from the text
that you demented.