She puts you on the wrong side of a funhouse mirror
when she is near. And you are glad when she wears
glasses, because then she is not too beautiful…you can
imagine your uttered syllables make sense. She’d be
perfect if she were a little taller, but you have to admit,
you’re not looking for perfection. Yeah, she’d do,
but she always has a boyfriend. And no, not you! You want
to ask for a place in that line, but she won’t date coworkers. Ha!
and if you believed that, you’d quit your job like that,
but, sorry, you’re also too nice and such a good friend.
And what does that mean? You’d happily be more of an asshole
if you thought you could, if you thought it would do any good.
But you’re a wonderful girlfriend. And you’re such a pussy,
because you damn well know this poem isn’t about you.
It’s about me and her. And I am such an ass.
And yes, she is perfect.
But you…don’t laugh, it’s easier this way! But you
can never find the words to say. Can never pretend there’s
a possibility. Rejection is a bullet. And pain is too.
Frustration and failure and the death of the future. You
can’t deal with those odds. 5 in the chamber, even you aren’t
stupid enough to pull that trigger. But you laugh at and admire
those who do. Over and over again. A fixed game. But this
is why you never go home with her and she never goes home
alone. She’ll always have her bulletproof superhero, and you’ll
always be too afraid of mortality to take that risk. You’re not
drawing dead, you know damn well you’re not, but you
don’t have enough outs to make the smart call.
So you just listen when she tells you of dreams you could easily
fulfill. Listen when she tells you how poorly she’s treated. Listen
when she complains everyone leaves her. And you want to
say you never would. But you know you would. On this side
of tomorrow she’s perfect. But if you were ever to.... She’d bitch
about the toilet seat being up, and how you spend your money, how
you eat and drink and how often you want to fuck. Even your
goddamn bedtime. And yes, she’ll want kids, but not yet,
and your house would become our house. And isn’t that scary?
And today she’s fresh and beautiful and untouched by time.
But on the other side of that line she’ll fill your bathroom trash
with feminine hygiene products and dry her practical hose
on your shower…those sexy numbers no longer seen. At least
not by you. And no, you’re not a catch either. And what happens
when she opens her eyes and sees only a dumpy man who once
loved her?
Which side of the mirror will I be on then?
