Dear Abby--3/25

A response to a poem my friend Dave wrote about his ex girlfriend. This is what I thought might have been going through her mind. I'm projecting, maybe?

-d.

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Dear Abby

Your brain hums as her moans
are buffering.
I can hear it at 3:12 in the morning
and I crack and sizzle like a fried egg.
This time, though,
I'm not making your breakfast in bed.

You're a romantic comedy from the 80's
and our banter pricks me like shots of glucose.
You're Woody fucking Allen
but I'll never have Scarlett Johansson's tits
so I don't expect much from you.

I chose to talk to you on a day
when I felt like drowning in my own air.
You haven't helped revive me since
not with cheap beer
or chocolate cake
or stupid sex games you thought would make me laugh.

(if I fall in love with anyone
it's not going to be you)

You spit charisma like used toothpaste
and make your teeth white as MTV.
I hated them like a glare on the television.
When I told you this, you looked at me the same way
as you did when I made you apologize for being in shape.

So I hid under your pillow
like your dad's old Playboy
and when I climbed out
your didn't mind being revealed.

I just wanted you to tuck me back in
but you just continued to hum.
Then when I saw your eyes were full of static
I pushed the elevator button
and watch the concrete rush up to meet me.