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.
