maybe i just really like the name
maybe her laugh is creepy lyrical dopamine bubbles
maybe it’s those bright round pieces
of cosmic quartz she calls eyes—
showstoppers—

maybe it’s the fake lashes around them
and how she only buys certain ones,
how she gets mad when they don’t have them—
she shuts down shop—

maybe it’s because she’s so tiny
or her adorable lisp—
the son of a hardworking barmaid and a lazy sailor—
or that she used to strip—
showtime, i won’t show up—

maybe it’s her muddled drinks
or her panic attacks which
present themselves as rage
maybe she’s beaten and battered
a mother of three
but she holds it together
and she holds it down

maybe it’s how she deals with me
and shows me her tits sober
and her ass drunk—
curtains closed, encore ensues

maybe i’m just hopelessly obsessed with
disaster disguised in the form of a woman
and she’s the best one yet

maybe i’m just too late
maybe… maybe…

but i know, i know for certain
that this time, this time,
fantasy is better than reality
and that’s exactly how i’m going to keep it.