Ever since Mary Magdalene
cleaned our clocks
to make us forget our inner Eve
we still wonder who is most notably sitting on the sideline through a
worthier sacrifice
I seem to have the damndest time
painting who this society girl archetype
that I never seem to be cut in the right mold to fit.
I can't seem to picture her without striking the wrong tone of banality.
You said I wasn't a society girl
and therefore could not would not be your girl.
So as you continues to sniff through the diamond bags of sorority girl
starlets,
let me just sit and mull over what this precisely means.
Let me get this straight.
She doesn't for the life of her cuss when you grab her chest as
if it it was a five star dinner he paid every valid dollar for,
although it is likely
he charged it to an expense account
with a frat boy loyalty reward program.
Most of us non-society girls do not qualify for such entitlements.
Let me get this straight.
She doesn't feed on you the way I do
when it's the only way to shut your suicidal meanderings in the night
that if I don't allow you to expand your horizons with other women,
you cannot truly come to fully respect
and "deserve" me the way I want you to.
Let me get this straight,
she finds that size zero dolce and gabbana that she wears
when she is by his side
doesn't cut off her circulation
as he takes his time posing for pictures
to find your "good" light beside and around her.
Let me get this straight.
All those designer degrees on her wall
must mean that she has found the cure
for your mysoginistic trophy girl spinning cancer, right?
Bet she can't draw the quickness of the heart that birthed you.
The one that expected you to be a man
before you even knew what that meant.
The one that doesn't just politely smile at your "boys will be boys" antics.
The stiltedness. . .
The listnessness. . .
A filtered press. . .
of understanding. . .
You bath in the vanity of believing that girls like us have it coming to us.
You're so special. . .
You're so precious. . .
Not at all vicious
to the ones that warned you. . .
Don't you know
that I'm a voyeur's dream?
I've only learned to heed your call
but found no way to leave?
Or was it just me?
the likes of me?
A dirty girl like me?
The side of me
no one but you could ever see?
You're so privileged
to see my worst but not be on the receiving end of your best.
Why?
What do I lack
Do you have the knack of luring him
to your densely lit crack?
What would it have meant
to bear the armor
of your lovee
instead of the brunt of your
"it's just you" vibe.
You could run into the night.
Pretend you won't lose her in flight
or watch the breadeth
of my eyes
and the thousand stories I sell in the light
There are no words for her to say.
not even,
"I told you so"
when she found herself
slaying the fires
he lit to my ground.
My heart sinks a little lower
a little slower.
a sadness
that he hasn't learned more
in that golden tower.
But I see myself in her
even if the thought of it crawls beneath your veins.
You believe to inflict an unbridled one upmanship between the two of us
so that looking back
she only reflects the affirming voice
you could never be for me.
My words ring loud.
My words ring clear.
I am no one's
second hand tier.
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