Summer Trips — a poem about the stories we tell ourselves
I'm sorry I put you in the box, baby.
I'm sorry I labeled you a sexy celebrity
when you were just a hometown flake like me.
You appeal and you break me wide open
and I guess I'm just a glutton
for that kind of button pushing.
I keep gunning the motor with the battery dead.
I keep wishing on stars when the sun's overhead.
Peeling off the burnt-on glasses,
I can see that I'm far from the ingenue
that pens these lamenting love letters to you.
Wrinkles singed into changing skin,
scars slashing the flesh.
I'm less than a catch.
And though we won't see eye to eye,
I'll press forward, sketching pretty lies.
You play the champion to my protagonist.
I like to pack a little fiction for my summer trips.