You Must of Been a Masochist to Like Me in 2006. Fifteen, maybe eighteen, or somewhere in-between.
I’m too dumb, too young, too shy to die. I don’t want people talking about me. In my next life I
want to come back as a baby. I dream of being loved beyond reason, my skin soft and new, but
what would I do? “Once you turn 21 you’ll have more fun.” I’m still waiting for it to kick in. I
cushion the blow with Costco® brand whiskey. Shatter proof? It’s fucking plastic. I need help
getting this shard of glass out of my thumb print. No not you, anyone but you. It’s been three
years, why are you still texting me? I’ll always remember you. New phone. Who dis? You were
stupid to think that I loved you. It’s not my fault that you couldn’t see through the bullshit
that I told you through soft whispers in your ear while my body pressed against yours in the
backseat of your mom’s car. I’d do doughnuts in the cul-de-sac behind your house. Driving you
fucking nuts. Thinking about it gives me an ulcer, you could have spared to be a bit nicer. I
ache and my body shakes. Happy hour (half off) rum and coke. Watered down, (puff puff) passed
around. The combo to cushion the blow to help me grow to muffle the aches of a falsetto. Working
for tips, choking down break sticks. I dream of childhood. I wake to realize I mistook this heavy
heart as being matured. Get a grip. Here, grab this roach clip, and take a hit.