I am writing poetry in a Burger King.
Who is she?
Edgy indie girl who struggles with spitting out her toothpaste
Just kidding (maybe).
Cute boy in Burger King, he has face tattoos. I like tattoos.
Eye contact is made. Nice face.
What do I look like to others?
My posture is probably bad.
I don’t want to know what I look like to others. It’s like when you see yourself in a photo and you don’t even recognise yourself. Is that me? My face? It’s my face but it’s also my not face and I hate it. Not all the time. Sometimes I like my face. I like staring at myself in the mirror, like that Ancient Greek person who drowns looking at their own reflection.
Vanity scum!
Tattoo face boy leaves.
The table I write on is sticky. I want to use ‘sticky’ in a metaphor but I don’t know what to compare it to.
Something in my pants?
I love synonymous. I flick through them in my mind.
Burger King? More like Burger Queen, amirite?
