The Dog Days Are Over.

Fuck these plain girls and their fat nerdy boyfriends.
You don't need to listen to that band for him to love you.
Fuck calling and calling and calling again and again.
We rack up our minutes into dusty pyramids; lined up in rows, year after year.
We look at our call logs and are devastated by our desperation.
Fuck drinking shitty trench water beers because he does.
Don't fuck the boys who pour Palm Bays down your throat
and take you out into the forest at night to look at the stars.
The sweater wasn't to keep warm, it was to take off you later.
This isn't romantic.
This is chasing one thing. This is hunting and making goals out of people.
The charm in their arrows is nothing less than venomous.
So I die every time and my grave is his bed.
Bury me bury me bury me.

A love life.
Love and life.
My love life is lifeless and without love.
It is a specter of lust, fear and solitude.
The history is nothing short of a tome of ghost stories.
My heart is a haunted mansion.
Lured in alone, one at a time.
We draw them in; trace chills up their spines. We rattle their bones.
The goosebumps get to be too much and they run. Though that rusty, rattling gate.
I've scared them all away.
And now I'm locking the door. Chaining the gate. Barring the windows.

We need no one here.
Maybe some girls do go through stages. This isn't a stage.
This is my life.