My mirrors
are always lying.
They tell me
my face would be missed
but
no one ever calls for me
so I call myself out loud,
trying to remember
what I was called
and
I wondered,
if the last time he kissed me
did I taste
good
or just
good enough
for now?
I wanted to tell him
I was all out of that flavor
My mother once told me
that girls like me
are like airport waiting areas,
only for the time in between
only for the nodding off after
a red-eye flight,
nodding off to
florescent flashing
and
sticky stains
of the child who was left for too long
by himself calling for his father;
my mother said
that girls like me are the
dingy chairs of
passing through,
for a stranger
who is waiting for a
connecting flight
on his way to someone
who matters
or someone he calls
permanent.
He looks at me
from the vending machine;
I imagine his hunger
as he fumbles for
change.
It's funny that he pushes
B4 for chips
and gets
cookies instead
but smiles anyway.
He sits
and c(r)um(b)s all over me.
and I can't help but taste
with him,
this passing
through.
