I love being a cliche

I twirl with ribbons in my hair and sunshine in my pocket.

the love of my life and I living the in a picket fence house; finding plane tickets to visit my father who is a much better grandfather than he ever was fathering me.

i think barbie is a great depiction of what i aspire to be. the soul of my creation was single handedly influenced by men and now are forced to live, laugh and love on the same ground as it.

i love being stereotypical

yes i do want a corsage on my wrist as as we dance being the king and queen of prom and life doesn’t get under because the credits are rolling upwards.

I want to be blonde and Caucasian and in Greece planning on our wedding, perhaps, or having a secret getaway with my girlfriends that none of our parents know of. it’s like Monte Carlo over again but instead of missing the train we were supposed to take and you were supposed to kiss me in the middle of the railings, it’s a bar with twinkly lights as we dance embracing the radiance will only have when we’re 17.

oh i love being stereotypical

for senior years, we could run on the football field with champagnes in our hands as we throw a picnic under the shimmering moonlight and all the thousands of lights decorate us as spotlights.

maybe, we could fall in love on the way there and how we’ll retell that story over and over again every night to little versions of us, and how the camera will pan upwards and show the exact same stars we saw when we’re only as young as we could possibly be.

we’re so young were theatrical.

our magnetic force is obnoxious.

as we danced our day away by the bay and at the end of the day, I’m just a cliché.

and oh, I love the cliché

so metaphorical it’s selfish. Oh, what a touché.

I’ve had my fair shares of days what I’ve meticulously directory dissemble the world behind me.

oh, I fall and fall over your tricks as if I’m gullible, but what can I say except I am culpable.

I hope you show up with a boombox in front of my house and I’ll scream “what the hell you doing??” from my balcony, as rain falls hard out in our openings, and I want you to kiss me in the dim lights of our street lamps, on the crosswalk where it don’t seem like anyone gives a pretty damn on our pretty day.

i love being a cliche

because my vibrancy isn’t there for you to mute, my light isn’t there for you to dim

I don’t need your sun for me to reflect on. I am my own apotheosis. I am my own French revolution. I am my own gardens of Babylon.

I am my own Juliet. I am my own Roman Empire.

wherever I step on, I leave behind redolent a piece of something for someone to remember on so I’ll be positive that my life was worth a while.

because I’ve spared my time and created my line

and may the credits roll in now.