Aren’t We Lucky
this is the good kind of cliché
where the boy is the only youngblondething
left in town & he’s lonely / the way God was lonely
when He made fucking everything
even the front lawn in West Virginia / littered with cigarettes like petals
thrown down the aisle
and he needs to be
the kid who comes
& kisses the first girl he sees
as if his heart isn’t already the shape / of a permanent fist
but whatever you want, I’ll be
& aren’t we lucky?
& isn’t this the part in the movie
where the boy drunk-stumbles home / and says, I’m sorry, mom
Your Ex-Girlfriend Comes to Me in a Dream and Reminds Me That I Ain’t Shit
we all want the fairytale:
each of us done up & dressed
in our Sunday’s best
because we just can’t wait
to meet his momma.
Do you feel held by him?
Yeah, us too. You’re not the only one
who thinks his voice sounds
like summer / or that his eyes are so fucking blue
you could drown in them / or whatever cliché
bullshit you purred into the phone
at four in the morning because you like
that he makes you lose sleep.
There’s nothing diamond about you;
nothing pretty you could say
to make him pick you first.
made of the same plastic
that makes Ken dolls melt in the sun
leaving all the Barbies
About Lauren Badillo Milici
Lauren Milici is a Jersey-born, Florida-raised poet and writer currently based in West Virginia. She is the author of FINAL GIRL from Big Lucks Books. When she isn’t crafting sad poems about sex, she’s either writing or shouting into the void about film, TV, and all things pop culture. @motelsiren