Faking It

Poetry

the jukebox hums to life and it’s another night

where I don’t know myself or anyone else,

so I linger, swiping through songs and waiting

for the soundtrack of my life to appear.

he said I was pretty, the kind of girl he wanted

to bring home to his parents one day soon,

but soon was a synonym for month upon month

where I waited for a threshold that never came.

last week I saw him at the bar and cringed away

when I saw the new pretty girl who had his ear —

and his smile, his laugh, his attention, everything

that was no longer mine (as if it had ever been).

the crash of sound hits me with a welcome thrum

and I know I’m just waiting on cues from new guys —

as if they’ll ever really know me just the way I want —

while the beats rain down in a chaotic symphony.

another beer, another shot, just enough to numb

away the restlessness I feel, the quaking in my bones,

and I don’t even hear when someone asks my name