You're going to kiss me, I'll turn out the lights.
I've been hurt before-- can't you tell--
my bulging eyes, such anorexic sight?
I've waited by a phone, I've been through hell
with artificial violent men who fell
away, I'm sure, to be with thinner girls
who felt number than me, smoother belles
not awkward like me, who awed the crooked world
with straight teeth. The hottest men were cold,
but I have you now, though we've never kissed,
and your rather silent-- I'll fit that mold--
I'll wear a gag and open my eyes much less.
Sit down, my head on your lap, I'm 29
by the way, and running out of time.