The boy sitting in front of me always changes

I am the true constant, I say the same things

About how regular I am, and how my thoughts are

All vanilla, but even I know that’s untrue

And they say the same things too, like

“Oh, I’m this, I’m that, I have this, I have that”

Painting a picture of a lineage they’ve

Come to romanticize, for want of choice

They draw vivid sketches in the air

Of things they own and keep their heads

High, while holding that cigarette in

Their mouths. Uttering words that invoke

Some nausea, a very odd feeling. I

Notice that I’ve felt this before and

Heard all of this, only in permutations

And combinations that repeat themselves

And so the seat opposite me goes empty

I heave a sigh of relief, knowing what

I’ve escaped and how their presence

Could possibly imprison me and leave

Me, chained to things that I neither

Wanted nor desired nor craved for

I refuse to watch them from the

Sidelines, and break into applause

I’m determined. To not be that girl.