He was never a coffee house kind of guy.
Never understood the attraction I had
For overpriced beverages and funky surroundings,
So I never expected to see him here,
In my domain.
He had on the same red sweater he was wearing
When I first met him-
Funny, how that was my first thought.
And when he asked me how I was,
I wanted to paint on a big fake smile
And say 'Fan-fuckin'-tastic.'
But I couldn't even say I was fine,
And funny, how I had believed I was fine
Up until he asked me.
Yeah...I never could lie to him,
Even though I was so good at lieing to myself.
I wondered if the day would come
When I could look him in the eye
Without feeling like a fool.
Apparently, not yet, maybe not ever.
I feel like I've aged a hundred years
Since I walked out of his door,
And not grown any wiser, just more leery.
I wish I could hate him for not loving me,
Hate him for politely declining when
I handed my heart over to him.
Hate him for making me wish I was
Good enough to be with him,
And hating myself because I wasn't.
But, I can't hate him, never could.
I know I can't blame him for
My own self destruction, as much as I'd like to.
But next time I see him, and he asks me
How I am, I hope I can say 'fan-fuckin'tastic'
And mean it.
Sandra Brennan
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fan-fuckin-tastic/
