Stir The Plot

I dream in Kinemacolor,
but with off-sync sound,
like a mis-dubbed foreign film.
Críticos son una bola de pendejos.
I live in an absurdist play
(Exeunt soldiers and townschickens).
I’m in a romcom,
but I’m the beloved antagonist,
or more specifically the antihero,
stir the plot with a ladle,
as they label me malcontent
and colour me bad.
I love and mourn like a poet.
I fight for free-range feelings.
Your compliments don’t complement me,
nor does your lust,
but I guess I kind of like it.
I’m the worst version
of the best example of myself,
but in the right light I’m beautiful;
I’m comfortable.
I’m your favorite recliner
with the coffee-stained armrest,
and the thick layer of shed fur.
Sometimes I laugh so hard I snort,
cry so hard I choke,
and listen nostalgically
to songs from the ’90s without shame.
I wear sale rack specials
and hand me downs in combinations
that would make Stacy and Clinton cringe,
but I’ve always been a go-figure kind of gal,
so I spread my plumage with pride.
I’m a two dollar bill the cashier scoffs at,
not counterfeit but presumed to be.
I’m a dozen doughnuts on a diet,
but you indulge anyway,
’cause it’s free, and no one’s looking.
I’m rapid cycling–
it’s the emotional Tour De France.
I’m dizzy, dizzying, disappointing…
I’m drowning, but I’m not the leading lady,
so you watch quickly when the credits roll,
and I’m in a scatterplot of extras
at the bottom in fine print,
and they spelled my name wrong.
They always spell my name wrong.

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