Sugar Pastry and Cigarette Ash
You look so cute when you're sad, I want to
make you cry every day for the rest of your
life with the tears rolling down your face, lips
quivering and nose running into your mouth.
I want to drop your self-esteem into a Mako
shark tank so that the last thing that goes
through your mind before it's torn to pieces
is, "He doesn't care how good looking I am."
In fact, if it used your shattered tailbone as
a toothpick, "he" probably wouldn't be worried
about what it might look like to other people,
or how it fit into your current world view.
I'd love to see the little bits of you floating
on the surface afterward so I could finally see
what you look like underneath the skin-deep
layer of facade you've clothed yourself in.
You look so hot when you're mad, I'd like
to use your most prized possession as an
ash tray and snub out butt after butt on the
price tag I'm sure is still stuck to the bottom.
I want to take a piss on your baseless opinions until
you go home and rub your eyes so hard it wears
away some of the playhouse makeup and in the morning
I can see what your real face looks like under all that.
For now, let's have another drink and I'll give the
illusion that I care until somebody better walks in.
Besides, that seems like an awful lot of effort to
spend on someone that can't just act like herself.
-- Steve McKennon, February 15, 2004