I don't wanna make choices
anymore—I just want to bat
my bimbo Bambi eyes, pout,
and be dumb enough to like
anything offered. A total brat.
Show me the smallest tasks,
then talk slower till you give up—
good thing I'm so pretty.
I'll agree:
push-up bra
and short skirt.
Then tell me a lie;
I'll believe you every time.
Yes, I'm so happy—
'cause you're so funny,
and I'm so very dumb.
'Cause I am so young, dumb,
and pretty—
just like we all want.
I want you obsessed with me—
addicted to the sound of my voice
and the smell of my hair.
Not just you—everyone.
Both bad boys and good girls,
crawling on their knees,
ready to drink me in—
Dripping syrup like a root beer
sucked through a straw—
while I sprinkle breadcrumbs,
real Hansel and Gretel style.
Pinch a petal,
a pinch of ground beef.
Eat raw meat like
our ancestors once did.
Lie in moldy, goldy grass,
rank enough to draw flies,
dank as the spores
in our bellies.
Be held until midnight,
and fuck like that
sometimes—
glass to ass,
cool and smooth,
subtle like that.
'Cause I may not know
an honest day's work,
but I know what I like.
My fictional internet boyfriend
rewired my brain,
and now I'm okay.
Which begs the question:
What the fuck is still wrong with you?
I could be a stoner babe in Florida—
smoking in the A/C.
Or go to the Midwest,
try to recreate a past
that's been dead.
Or go full red-pill housewife—
an honest thought, sometimes.
When I've got future on future
on deck, and time to fiddle it out—
so what the fuck you
worryin' 'bout?
