Yes, you are the butch, aren’t you?
Sipping our sodas — bellies full of burritos
Don’t fall on your head, find feet and grab hold of a tiny red car,
yours or mine, it doesn’t matter which. I’m obligated to laugh.
Riding around these cold afternoons, the winter is holding on as best it can,
your head seemed as full as mine of new information,
of disappointments, of distractions, of fear (but I’m not telling).
The newness of new is wearing off quickly, but don’t take one giant step back.
It’s all the same, you’re all the same, I’m all the same,
the characters keep changing, but the plot never does.
I’m starting to attach to people, remind myself of where I meant this to be.
Finding your way with bitter guides is hard.
At least we can jump into a car and run away for an hour.
So, you be the butch, with your harem waiting at home, and I’ll be your sidekick,
the Madonna loving, muscle shirt wearing, swishy fag
who waits for your direction, but still gives orders as if I was your boss.
Don’t report to me or their will be Hell to pay, trust me.


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