Naples,
I drank up all the sap again. Dingo left it in the back of his pick-up and I was going to turn into lead this time without it. I could dally around and make small talk with you--that would make it a lot easier on both of us I guess. You could go on pretending that I love you, and I could go on pretending that I want to. I know you've got a thing for me Nape, but it's just too complicated. Your lips are flaky and not fit for kissing, and you know I don't like your rusty, rough hands. Your eyes are like road maps because your mother is dying, and I'm just too selfish to stick around and love you. Rue says I hold tight to my sick vices because I'm young. I'm 19, Napolean. I have the whole world ahead of me. I don't need you to get me pregnant and to live in some sad excuse of a tinsel trailer trash dream. I know you say it'd be nice. I know you say we'd have a dog igloo for Francis. But I'm over what you say Napolean, because you're a nice guy. Nice guys finish last. I'm putting you last Napolean. I'm putting you last because you work hard. I'm putting you last because you're still wearing Temo's pinstripe overalls. I'm putting you last because you trim your beard, and you have nice penmanship. You're a hard worker, Napolean. I'm putting you last because my skirt is too short, and my "nice" skirt is shorter, and if you took me out, I'd hate to leave you for the married 30 year old at the bar with a desk a job while you are in the bathroom. Don't make me break you Napolean, because I will. You tell your mom to feel better. Tell her I said I'm here if you guys ever need anything. But don't tell her that, Napolean, not really. Because we both know everything on the south side of Oklahoma City is sequined, scarred up, and turning tricks.
Eiffel
No comments:
Post a Comment