I could be every ordinary man’s fever dream.
Yoga pants, sports bra for the ones who break out in sweat for skin and ass. Fuck-Me pumps and lip gloss for boys who wait on getting laid, but will also never pass up 3AM McWings. Pretty sundress and pink lip balm for the easy weekend date at a museum. Oversized sweater over panties for insomniacs who feel nothing inside. Fishnets in ripped jeans for the ones who will love you with cigarettes and concerts. Old shirt and jean shorts for the ones who want everything, even coffee shop beers at 9.45 in the night.
for familiar men,
I put on these costumes.
yet no amount of bandages could stop this bleeding.
because why should I be extraordinary
when love has always come and gone
in the form of ordinary men?
why should I be beautiful
if I’ve always drawn the broken,
accepted the the ugly?
I’ve been told I could be every ordinary man’s fever dream.
But what is the point of dreaming if loving means leaving
all my ordinary in the arms of someone real?
