CANDY SHOP

I wasn’t the girl you wanted me to be. Although, I sure did look the part:

a brunette in wedges and fishnets who met you at a dive bar on the East Side.

We made some conversation, not one about my age.

Instead, you talked about yourself and joked about John Wayne.

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But you are not John Wayne, and I am not Judy Garland.

We don’t ride off into the sunset. Instead, I cry in a garden

of horrors. It’s the place where the lonely red roses grow,

and every girl who makes it out ends up alone.

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In my worst nightmares, I’m standing outside the Candy Shop, 

crying on the sidewalk in Brooklyn.

A moment in time—

where only I could remember

the night you refused to come out and talk.

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I always wake up before freezing on a cold September,

or maybe it’s May

when we’re back in your apartment on the corner of Saint Marks.

You’ve got a bloody nose,

I’m drinking rosé in the bathroom.

At first, the duality fits, as it’s all fun and games.

But we paint the tiles blue without saying a word.

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I leave in a taxi cab, and it feels like a curse.

I should’ve lit a match to burn the place down;

at the very least, it’s what you deserve.

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The worst forms of violence are the ones without apologies.

Flashbacks of love get dotted with a question mark

from a lack of forgiveness

for the scars you left.

There is no happy ending in this.

You wanted silver-screen romances. I got a narcissist.