Faking It

the jukebox hums to life and it’s another night

where I don’t know myself or anyone else,

so I linger, swiping through songs and waiting

for the soundtrack of my life to appear.

he said I was pretty, the kind of girl he wanted

to bring home to his parents one day soon,

but soon was a synonym for month upon month

where I waited for a threshold that never came.

last week I saw him at the bar and cringed away

when I saw the new pretty girl who had his ear—

and his smile, his laugh, his attention, everything

that was no longer mine (as if it had ever been).

the crash of sound hits me with a welcome thrum

and I know I’m just waiting on cues from new guys—

as if they’ll ever really know me just the way I want—

while the beats rain down in a chaotic symphony.

another beer, another shot, just enough to numb

away the restlessness I feel, the quaking in my bones,

and I don’t even hear when someone asks my name

because the song builds and builds like in a movie.

but this isn’t a movie, just my life spinning as I realize

I’m crying while singing along to lyrics that ring

far too true and far too close and far too everything—

and it’s just another lie in a string, a pattern, a snag.

when the song is over, I stumble out to a chilly night

where the stars gaze down with an eerie contempt

and I know far too well that I’m just spiraling, waiting

for answers that may never come along after all.