Miami Vices, a poem
I wasn’t innocent
like I tell them in my stories,
hiding behind crushes and blushes,
little words like,
“It’s all his fault”
and
“I didn’t do anything”
and
“He was such an ass.”
No.
Not all him.
Some me.
I hurt
him and others
like I hurt
just to feel the Miami-style drama
that goes along
with Miami-style love.
Like, oh my god
the man is such a boy.
You feel me?
You’ll say this to friends,
who live vicariously
through your crazy
and you, complaining about the stress
of affection;
the complication
of trying love out for a second time,
you tell the world you want calm
on Facebook, beside a photo of a cat,
on Twitter, #singleandnotlovingit
on Instagram, duckfaced for all;
but it’s obvious, linda
you want the drama
because when it comes to relationships,
commitment is boring,
the stories too innocent,
the city somewhere outside Miami,
with less than 305 ways to say,
“I need you.”