I remember the day I met you,
And how you said we had matching Instagrams.
One day, once we get old and decrepit,
Maybe I’ll decide I’m done listening
To your translation of what happens in the “real world”,
And how sublime you want your life to be:
Forever stretching basic choices into a chronic state of insecurity,
With the hope that if you act just a little more clueless,
It won’t come off as faking.
Your cutesy routine
Of what happiness entails
Seeking always more places to talk about it,
Is the maggot under my skin.
Just do what you have to do,
I want to say,
But you wouldn’t,
You spin rebellion like it’s some intoxicating and fiery cocktail,
And invite every one of us to play house
Because you can’t grow up.
Everything isn’t divine,
Everything isn’t earthy.
Sometimes life is a paycheck.
Maybe the reason your life feels empty
Is because the conventional is too conventional to get lost in,
And you live your life trying to accumulate dinner party stories.