Chug chug chug
There are looks and then there are stares
And wide-eyed candy floss pink blushes
Contained in dim lit, smoke studded carriages
Stuffed with meat and bodies and faces and breaths
Some of which aren’t as sweet smelling
As the dulcet tones of Elizabeth Bennett
Or Mr Darcy and his linens (I presume)
A meaty marathon of viewing this weekend
Has urged me to start saying “I am not 27”
Just like when they say they’re “not 16”
Or “not one and 20”
Because it sounds more abstract
A guessing game
And I’m sure I would be looked at quizzical
But I’d probably enjoy it
As that’s the kind of shit I get off on.
talking to my pillow. 