I used to fantasize over being sold for a crate of beer
and how it could put a dollar value upon
the favors I performed in the dark.
My fantasies metastasized into a cancerous defeat -
I've been blessed with what they call
but they've got pills for that and every other differential -
"Hey baby, come back!
Bipolar is just a word,"
says the same undercover lover
who once professed to me that
'age is just a number.'
All of these men are side-effects
who think their dicks are the next great cure.
They can't get me out of their head,
I can't keep them out of my bed.
What they'll never tell you about
being the Girl at the Rock Show
is that you'll always sell yourself short.
These days, I'm worth a bottle of mood stabilizers,
and I never even got that crate of beer.