hand it to me

Give me some time to panic. I ran out, just a minute ago, and my shoes stuck to the pavement like my thoughts often stick to yours. I was trying to get away from the world. I was casually walking on a dead end when you came and talked to me. You told me how you know me and you tried to make me yours. You reached into your blush colored pant pocket and pulled out a piece of business card stock with all your advice on it. I stared at you because at most I would just use that as a bookmark in an ugly book that I never read. It was that bad. Your murmuring lips watch me read it and the last thing you questioned was my creativity.

I think it's my turn for some helpful criticism, let me just say this: you walk with your butt sticking out and I think I'm allergic to you.

And then you walked away and I stayed there for hours, sitting on a mailbox with a last name on it that sounded german. I made a list of all the things I liked about myself then I taped it to my hand so I won't forget it.