heart of gold

and i sit barstool like,
climbing around his southern drawl
as she blushes and
shies away from my softly inquisitive glance.
“tell me the truth”
- she knows i am humoring her.

and all i wanted was a heart of gold
but i just – couldn’t – stop

and i lounge, catlike, my
ever so idle expression
meaning that i am
oscillating between being
a disappointment and a trap
- a pretty trap.

& they say dirty dishwater is better than none
so don’t worry sweetie, i’ll hide my disgust
as i steal a kiss from your sweaty lips

you call me abusive, i call you nothing, subhuman
“so don’t worry about my feelings,” i choke out
“i feel in love with your flattery, not your face.”

your sentiments leave handprints
on my feather duvet.
i close my eyes and whisper,
“heart – of – gold”
& you’re still on the phone.
“what a cliché, sweetie, but
there is nothing pretty about this.”

a/n: sometimes i fully hate myself. “a pretty trap” - the glass menagerie. you remind me of me when i was younger. that is not a good thing.