I am like every other girlfriend you have ever had.
Except I can’t be a mystery.
I can’t do drugs on the rug in my living room,
I can’t escape to that apartment in the city.
I can’t know you for two years,
I can’t get a cliche tattoo on a whim.
I can’t write in prose, in poetry, in any medium,
and it won’t make anyone other than myself feel.
I can’t have daddy problems,
I can’t pull off an androgynous hair cut.
Or buy clothes with my employee discount,
or win over all your friends,
or make you laugh on purpose.
I am like every other girlfriend you have ever had.
