I guess I never learned to paint my nails properly,
like everything in my life,
I can’t quite keep between the lines,
but you don’t seem to mind.
You tell me they look nice,
and your voice,
soft and reassuring,
is all the convincing I need,
to keep splattering black nail varnish,
in the vague direction of my nails,
with half gay abandon,
(In case you didn’t know, I’m bisexual, and it’s basically the rules that I have to loudly announce it as often as possible).
I’m painting my nails,
with only a Morrissey vinyl for company,
waiting for you to call,
though I know you’re busy today,
and I’m setting myself up for a mid evening crash,
where I lay under my covers,
refuse to eat dinner,
(which isn’t nearly as dramatic when you are the only person who’ll notice if YOU don’t get up and make dinner for yourself),
and cry myself to sleep,
because like Tinkerbell,
and instagram influencers,
(and I suppose, Morrissey, although, I am TRYING not to give into him at this point)
I need attention to live,
I am DYING.
One can’t exactly go to waste in the wrong arms,
if no arms come to call.
I’m sorry to be so obvious,
but my loneliness is life and death.
That’s how we almost lost Britney,
and you wouldn’t want that end for me,
My nails still look a mess,
Morrissey is almost done,
and thank God,
because I feel guilty even letting him,
and what he became into the house,
you haven’t called,
so I’m going to the park,
to cry under the stars,
for a change of scenery.