In Hiding, or Probably Not

KATIE LAMAR

I’ve been under the covers of my bed for the past sixteen years and I burned all the journals I wrote freshmen year, so I’m in a place where love cannot find me.
I slam the refrigerator door and I forget to walk my dogs a lot, so I’m in a place where love cannot find me.
I piss off my dad at any chance I can get and I judge the pop songs on the radio for being too optimistic, so I’m in a place where love cannot find me.
All I do is cry until all my tears are dry and I write horribly mangled love poems to the boy who is never coming and I don’t eat my vegetables, so I’m in a place where love cannot find me.
I’m too tall or too mean or something like that I’m too blonde or not enough so I’m in a place where love cannot find me.
Hi my name is Katie Lamar so I’m in a place where love cannot find me.
I’m imperfectly impatient and I hate myself for it
This is a mangled mass of body held up by stilts yet somehow I’m still not tall enough to see past these metaphors!

I have hands too eager, too reaching-my eyes are too bright, too wide
My father advised me to stop wearing flannel on floral, as if finding a boy has anything to do with the fit of my fashion

As if my fancy will fix my failures

As if a new fad will draw a fixation, but I told my dad it’s all about my hibernation
I’m too good at hiding out in the open; I’m so in your face it’s like I’m not even here

You’ve looked right past me as if someone has disguised me and I’m in a place where love cannot find me

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