There’s nothing more American than a 2nd chance
And yoga is for white people who stop going to church
And we just spend, spend, spend on empty things to make up for the experiences we’ll never have
I made lots of money when everyone else was at Bonnaroo
But I’ve never been to Paris
And I don’t have a passport
And I wonder if being lower class is a lifetime condition and I’ve got no chance of marrying up no matter how good I look or how many yoga classes I sweat through
It’s not lower class, my dad says, it’s called the working poor
And he spends $190,000 a year
And education is restricted to the offspring of the educated and maybe a bachelor’s degree is as far as I can offset the scale of class and wealth and greener grass and leased Audis
Did I miss my chance?
Do I have to wait for the first round of divorces?
Is it possible to do it on my own if I’ve never known anything else?

I always get lost when I leave your house and I picture getting in a car accident and I wonder if you picture me without my patina
If you know the bags under my eyes aren’t Chanel
And if 5 years hadn’t passed would I still be bronze? And fit? And sad but in short spurts so that I could still live my life
Sleep at night
Not like this, burned through to the bone and it’s so hot and it never seems to cool down and this city smells like hot garbage and seawater and everyon’es so hot but tempers are subdued and there’s no social justice at 96 degrees
We hover oscillating fans and drip through the floor
Swallowed in summer land, adventure camp and maybe it’s not so final and maybe no one’s keeping track of time and there’s a chance you’ll want to stare and me forever and I’ll oxidize into a work of art, your favorite display but this time I want the right way
Drive carefully, it’s your civic duty

I don’t want to talk about it
And I think that’s fair
To opt out of the survey
To not contribute to this public opinion
To not box myself in
You know I’m living up to the stereotype
I self identify
Do you know what it’s like?
Do you even want to?
You know I can’t sleep at night and I don’t feel him beating inside of me anymore
Like he’s beating somewhere else for something else
Greater than blood distribution beyond the institution
That so gracefully takes the blame again
When it’s people like you
Close minded to anyone who’s not open minded
So selectively open
So respectfully token
Just a pawn in a different game

Before all the shit
That’s the best time. It’s so short but it’s so nice.
And I’m excited to see you
And we have so much to do
And I like finding your clothes here
And you can drive my car
And every sleepover leads to sex
And I can’t wait to see you
Then I see you all the time
Then you’re always here
Then I can’t get rid of you
And you treat this house like a hotel and come and go in and out of my heart and mind
And then you stay away longer
And then I start to wonder what you’ve been doing
And then you’re “just talking” and then I do something you can’t forgive and I know it will change the way you look at me forever but I do it anyway
And then there’s all the shit

The opium of the people is opium
Call it what it is
Don’t spend all this time constructing this soviet society just to blame it for your ills
You’re ill
But you’re numb to the pain
You douse your nervous system in these chemical blockades to live in your haze
So you don’t take responsibility
So it’s not your fault, it’s everyone else’s and their natural inclination to hate
But not you
You’re holy
You glow
With righteousness or maybe that’s just
Your toxicity flickering in the moonlight

Where they wrote
Like it can be reduced to one dark room and one cluttered desk
Like they couldn’t possibly write in their heads in a silent standoff in a loud fight, inside a literal or figurative jail, in between moments of life in between day and night with a caustic partner snoring beside them or alone on the couch getting drunk in front of the TV again
Where they wrote
Where it all happened
Where the letters became words and the words become thoughts and the thoughts became universal expressions of hate and love and pain and suffering

Something about sex, it’s still so relevant
Still such a driving force behind establishing a relationship (true, or false, or otherwise)
No matter how old I get, he gets, they get, the game is still played the same way … take the time to connect emotionally, conquer, then flee
How is it still conquest and peace?
What kind of peace my life would have if I wasn’t always on guard, second guessing, investigating lies I just assume exist?
“Why would you think he’s lying to you?”
Because he did it before and I didn’t catch it because he still chose her, ring and all, even though I have better hair
Because he still brought her to Paris – though I hear he’s left her now
And I ran away and they’re still everywhere
Chasing roses, constraining my ocus, and even though I know it’s all a scheme he doesn’t mean
I hold him close and whisper
Say you’ll never let me go