One day i’ll get what i deserve.

Karma’s a bitch, and time’s an asshole,

so i’ll kiss & make up with them each time i fuck up

and we’ll fake nice.

By morning, we’ll all grab brunch at succotash

and jesus will chaperone and it’ll all be grand

because nothing’s grander than the grand view of

double spaced 12 point font and mla format

of bullshitting a good rep with god’s children

and all their glowing friends.

 

A straight edge a few degrees off center and a broken compass

jump hand-in-hand off the ledge

the former drew and into conclusions the latter found

and way down into mutual solitude,

because who needs community when you’ve got commiserators?

Who needs a comforter when you’ve got a million sheets

with a billion holes and a phone charger that reaches

to a comfortable spot on your bed?

 

Money is everything

and success is the rest

so i’ll rest in peace

knowing the perpetual gun to my head

and my portrait on the wall are both drawing a blank.

One day i’ll get what i deserve

because i know that what i do,

what i’m going to do,

and what i’ve always done is nothing.

 

Karma’s a bitch and time’s an asshole

so i’ll sit with them in the principal’s office

as they take far sides of the sofa

and harmonize sol la ti do,

screaming out s-e-l-l-o-u-t.

It’s to myself, really.

I’m my own queen; i’m my own pawn.

I’ve taken myself, and i’m missing from her too.

 

And if karma sends me a sober boy

who won’t scar me with red cars

and the moon and the stars,

if time will give me laugh lines

and a lucid loft with climbing vines,

i can’t take it,

because no one’s there to put these dreams in amber,

placid and preserved.

"It couldn’t possibly be jubilee,"

my family observed,

"she moved out years ago,

and she got what she deserved."