A Potrait

A Portrait

You’re all teeth and blood
and stale coffee breath,
beauty be damned,
walking around penguin-legged
with holes in your stockings
and mascara hidden in your shoes

You talk of the future
as if it’s a graspable thing,
not the indefinite, which I know
it be, but keep the head in the clouds
Hun and maybe one day
you’ll get that Happy Meal

I’m not bitter,
far from it, consider it
removed, my head a cloud
hovering and hailing over
some other wannabe anorexic
girl’s fashion shoot

So keep pursing the lips
and spitting the lies
and maybe one day I’ll
be back to admit I was all
wrong and you’re the
only fuckup I want
to wake up to