Bored Salacious

By: Zoë Christianson

Though you’d never admit me to be justified
in saying “no,”
I think you know why I’m doing this.

Too often
I catch you staring at me, wanting me,
but never know how to say
what I have to say.

After everything I’m hardly tongue-tied anymore,
but it’s become too easy to doubt your reality
making you, in my mind, only what I want you to be,
A hypocritical motion, I suppose,
recreating your principle crime against me.

You’d wonder why exactly
I’d ponder something so long dead.

I cannot precisely say,
though I figure it has something to do with how much better
it feels
to miss someone
who might have, in her own twisted way, wanted me
than to shudder at the mention of her name,
remembering the nausea that followed
each and every time she made a pass at me.
I would have played along
as your naive redhead,
would you have pretended to love my spirit
for more than a cheap screw.

It’s never a fair trade,
but it’s apparent that
given and despite everything that happened
only I was truly wrong.

I should have known better
than to search for compassion from a girl who will spend her life
scrounging for approval in the beds of foul boys who close their eyes
and make believe they’re with someone, anyone but her,
who love her because they’re too lazy,
too worthless
for any girl
who insists on being valued as more
than something cheaply bought
and thrown away
the next day