rosters are fun,
until you narrow it down to one,
and he’s not the one.
foolish me, swimming out of the dating pool,
confident and full of love
with nothing to show for it except
tear stains on my expensive face.
makeup to cover me from this expensive world,
an expensive girl, with poor taste in partners.

I make not enough money,
and not nearly enough love.
my chest holds an empty, beating, bank account.
an emotional ATM and a line of hot men
with their hands held out.
for them, I open & spill it.
they are the bully & I am the boy,
held upside down from the bottom of his jeans,
shaken for change.

rosters are great,
until you’re surrounded by muscles
that don’t know your last name.
racing to find your flesh at the finish line.
though none of them will win,
I shoot the gun.

I like men primed to provide and please,
why do I let the confused ones
stomp my chest out?
the lost ones with the lost looks in their eyes.
they are stray cats and I walk around at night
with treats in both pockets, glue for their bones,
and my heart for borrowing.

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