The Stork brought you some commitment
It’s a human!
What does it even mean to have a baby?
Nephews I’ve got, and patience, I’ve not,
But seriously, commitment is a screaming, crying monster.
Baby Commitment wants its bottle. Don’t forget to check its diaper. Did you burp it? It has gas.
Riiiiiiiiiiiight. And just like that, I remember where I stand;
With a happily empty headed nest full of the future and no plans in particular
And I’m happy this way, even when it hurts,
Because the “Isn’t this supposed to hurt more??” feeling often is forgotten in knowing better,
And how freaking expensive some of those dreams are.
My heart really hasn’t broken,
And I throw these fabulous leather studded dice on the table, trying to resolve reality the quickest way possible,
And I like to wait by the side of the billiards table with a supply of Hot and Spicy Cheetos, just biding my time,
And I casually wander off, forgetting I’ve cast any bets,
And it bubbles up later, right before I’d rather be sleeping,
And there are tears, but they are sometimes pretty nice,
Because ever since crying didn’t equal “depression”, I really love to cry,
It’s just so cathartic.
Yes, and I cast these beautiful bets,
And no, they aren’t tied up in pretty little bows,
Because the shoelaces aren’t mine to tie;
At least, not until I’m a mom.
Real Pinocchio boys who aren’t real life Men,
And Girl I already know what you’re thinking if I hear one more “Could shoulda woulda” horror story.
Coulda asked. Shoulda waited. Woulda meant something.
How the hell can I know?
I’m just sitting here, hands in my lap, angry enough at the whole steaming, stone-soup mess that I can barely think to express
How freaking wonderful love can be, from the books I’ve read.
Not sure anyone I know actually really enjoys love,
Not sure it’s really worth all the hype.
In a bizarrely broken, beautiful way, I like to think it’s only a matter of time before the pieces shift into place,
But who am I kidding,
At least I would make a pretty baller [insert derogatory stereotype about unmarried older women here].
I don’t want to be a Cat Lady, because cats aren’t actually Satan, and she seems nice,
And I don’t want to be a Nun, because not everything can be the Nun’s fault, and they seem nice,
And I definitely don’t want to end up a Craiglist Classified Kinda Red-light Lady,
Because at this rate, she’s probably kinda nice.
I want to be loved and valued by God first,
The rest of it can trickle its way down, like dollars are supposed to,
And in the meantime, before another night that is legitimately hard to second-guess sleeping through, here and there,
I can cut myself a freaking break.