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?