Smear this ink across the page and
Crumple it away.
(I know you'd like to hate me for it,
But your bias is papery poison
When you have no art to compare with my finger paints.)

Tell me, where's the point
When there are a million other girls in
My jeans,
(They were always an inch too high.)

Who hide the holes in their shoes and
Spill whatever wistful tunes they're too
Porcelain to speak aloud.

(Cookie cutter outline of everything I wish I could be.)

The thought is so spectacular,
Notebooks filled to the brim with
Riffled pages.
But you hit the brakes when you're there and
You're just another smudge on the desk
Left by the kid in the period behind you.
Just something else, something that will be
Erased and forgotten in moments.
(So what's the point in marking?)

And when these words dissipate,
What is there left in me?

Just my holey shoes and
Too-short denim hugging my hips.
Because I can't stand this feeling of
Touching our canvas and
Knowing nothing's coming,
Or looking at somebody and
Knowing you can't face their eyes this time.

(I know I'm speaking in tongues to you,
For you'd need coke bottle glasses to see clearly.
Switch your rose-tinted specs with mine and
You'll realize the self-deception,
For you see me as everything you wish I was.)

And I'm sorry if you were expecting sculptures
When all I have are
(doodles)

Sketches on the back of English tests.

I hear you can't refill fire extinguishers,
So maybe this time I've run out.
(I'd buy a new one, but
I have to pay for jeans that reach my feet.)

I can't give you sculptures,
(I always sucked with visionary,)

But I'll write your name all over the bathroom stalls
In my finger paints.

(And maybe it will be enough.)