I Hate Word-Counts

I don’t wanna write it down, I wanna tell you right now
I wanna tell you I love you and I hate you
I wanna admit I admire you and despise you
I wanna tell you I thought about killing myself tonight
But I can’t wait to talk about the new Star Wars movie
I wanna tell you how I think it’s all wrong
how the world’s locked me in and it tempts me
how it feels like the devil took me and has me
I wanna admit that maybe I’m a devil too

Maybe I wanna fix me but my brokenness feels too good
Is it even brokenness though?
This french crueler is killing me but it tastes so good.
I know I’ll get fat tomorrow but I deep-throat it anyway.
But then the sugar glaze is hard to wipe off my lips
I wonder if this is how sex workers feel.
Fuck your breakfast pastries,
Fuck your aspartame,
Fuck your sugar substitutes,
Fuck your happy-ending massage parlors. You won’t be fooling me no sir.

Is this too much for you?
Should I cry instead? Or should I keep talking?
I can cry for you if you want.
Last week I made myself cry while waiting for the ramen to heat up.
At least I’m not bulimic.
Or I can talk. But most people don’t like that.
Are you sure? It won’t be weird? I can say weird things sometimes.
But I can be funny too. I’m pretty proud of that french cruller thing I said. Did you see what I did there?
Artists are like that. Narcissists are too, I guess.

I would say I’m full of myself.
Is that okay? Most people think self-deprecation is super weird.
Can I tell you I don’t really care for myself anymore?
Or should I say I’m a work in progress?
What do I say if you ask me, “how’s life?” or, “how are you?”
Should I say everything is beautiful or can I tell you how bad it really is?
But I guess that can wait, I think our drinks are done.

I’m gonna tell you I’m okay.
I’m not gonna tell you that I’m sad or fat or angry.
Because everyone’s sad, fat, and angry.
I’ll tell you I’m excited for the new superhero movie
We can talk about how music on the radio is trash
I’ll twiddle my thumbs as you tell me how much you dislike Taylor Swift
I won’t admit I listen to her music just yet. Or maybe I will.
I’ll tell you about that donut I had in Southhampton.
I’ll tell you about that pretty girl at the art gallery I don’t even know what her name is.
I’ll probably lie to you too. Probably just a white lie.
And I’ll probably tell a million more.