The Reporter

by bru

You had your name engraved on every number two pencil
so you'd remember who you were after every nervous breakdown.

And when you wanted to be a sketch artist,
you bought a pad of paper and sat in front of some trees.

Now that your life is falling apart,
you feel like pulling that paper out of the closet again.

You said you only wanted a ring on your finger.
But all you've been given is kisses on the cheeks
and I'm-sorry-you're-not-the-right-ones.

You said you were okay when he left you for that woman from Sacramento.
But giving up everything never felt so right before now.