Pistol baby

I
Check
The
Mail
Everyday for tobacco coupons, notices for bills, Sam’s old Stanford Law magazine
They call it a brochure
In letters I find dried little flowers, probably curated for hours
Long, pensive cursive ink I’ll probably throw into the trash
I asked about your guns, you showed me your stash
I got whiplash
I wasn’t expecting that

Your loaded Smith & Wesson pistol
How’d you get your hands on that
Giving me a heart attack

Stop
Don’t point it at me like that

Don’t make me like you even more
I’m really not the girl you asked for
I bet you have others, for that I’m sure
My ex-boyfriend called me a whore

Are you sure you want to get involved?
I may be a puzzle, but I’m not yours to solve
My mental derangement cannot be dissolved
I’ve tried these tactics
Your words are like static
I want to scream, “rescue me”
But the last thing I want is your bitter pity
So just try to please me
Act pleasant and nice like a daisy
Swim across all the oceans with me
Plant mint and fall in love, madly
I do things a little obscurely

Start
Point it at me like that
Make me question how to act
Say that you’re playing and this is just a joke
Right?
Right?

Your take your Parliaments out
I begin to smoke
I love to smoke
You don’t know me, I’m poison oak
My life is all one big joke


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