It’s four o'clock on a Friday
and I am weeping in a Walmart parking lot.
You can’t drink enough
to forget these kinds of things;
they’re still sitting on the foot of your bed,
waiting for you to wake in the morning.
My dad measured my progress
by pencil marks on the wall,
waiting for me to outgrow you.
He didn’t know I fell asleep curled around the telephone,
like only a girl breaking every rule
I was your cherry girl, California summer sun;
your ace of hearts on the poker table.
If given the chance,
I would have made love through the post cards.
I would have kissed the holy
out of your goddamn mouth.