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I can't compete with your vanity
You spent an hour in the mirror—
I spent an hour in the bar.
Your lipstick’s a death sentence
I don’t want to serve.
I walk through these rooms,
thinking of small deaths,
wishing I had the nerve
to pack up and leave.
You think I envy your silk shirts,
your hair that floats like smoke.
But I have my own ruin to feed
with whiskey and cigarette ash.
You are not my hero,
you are not my god—
you are a billboard
I no longer want to read.
Copyright ©
James Mclain
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