she’s sitting in front of the gas station, smoking a cigarette.
she’s straight out of a film reel,
a print in a magazine.
a high to ride, a whim to climb on.
you’re stretching your fingertips to reach the woman who’s
sitting in front of the gas station, smoking a cigarette.
the smoke blurs her face, until she’s nothing but an outline,
a vague map of soft lines and shadowy features.
that’s fine, though.
it’s not like she’s the one that matters.
it’s more about her cherry lips, and how they pucker as they blow out the smoke,
or her eyes, and how glassy they are as they watch the tendrils curl around her fingers,
it’s never really been about her,
it's about the idea of a woman who’s
sitting in front of the gas station, smoking a cigarette,
just waiting for some tortured soul with a pen to write her into reality.
someone who’s as low as you are high.
it’s fun to discard her,
she’s cheap to buy, pretty to wear, easy to throw,
it’s fun to leave her,
sitting in front of the gas station, smoking a cigarette.
you’ll feel big and bold,
perhaps fool around with being the good guy, the one that made a mistake.
but history likes to repeat itself, doesn’t it?
because sooner or later, what once was golden no longer glimmers.
and you’ll crave the high you once rode, the whim you once owned.
and go crawling back to some other woman
sitting in front of a gas station, smoking a cigarette,
waiting for someone to call her home.
Vivian Dong is a newly obsessed Bridgerton fan who spends her days reading, writing and arguing that Lover is Taylor Swift's best album. She frequently writes for her school's literary magazine and passionately believes that tragic endings are the best ones. She cannot wait to get her license, move out of Pennsylvania, and perhaps get a cat.
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