Gwen Stefani blasts through my ears
so I start singing in unison,
I ain’t no hollaback girl,
I ain’t no hollaback girl.
I am shouting…er singing.
I guess I’m hollering back,
As I’m always texting back,
or texting first,
or fucking sending three Snapchats.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to pretend
you don’t turn my stomach into
a butterfly mortuary
that they flew around so fast and frantic,
all of them died.
I’m a graveyard of everything I’ve ever said to you.
You grabbed my hand in the Uber
like you had never touched another human being,
Like we’re all electricity
without a panic button.
I’m sorry I pulled away.
I’m sorry I searched for a panic button.
I’m sorry I tried to play a part I’ve never been able to master.
I keep wanting to not be in so deep.
For us to just be dirty pictures,
and stolen Los Angeles nights.
and messages I hate reading in the morning.
You smell like generic shampoo
that I’d find on aisle 6
in any store.
You are everything I’ve seen before,
but I want to kiss you in the bar
as soon as you walk through.
What if I told you
everything you did
became the smallest footnote
instead of the chapter heading
that I read when I can’t sleep?
What if I didn’t tell you anything?
What if I just didn’t care?
What if I could just convinced myself
we were always nothing?