Make me pretty when I am dead
I was never much of a looker while alive
It was pure luck that I managed my first kiss
Perhaps it was out of pity? Well I did cry
Afterwards, for the other persons lips I mean.
Sure, I might have tried human interaction
Once, though it just all felt like busy work
Or more excuses to get drunk (what fun!)
Once I saw people ask each other the kind
Of lover they prefered, I was quick not to reply.
“Dont ask me questions” I would say
“this French Martini cost me 22 fucking bucks, im busy.”
Some of those people in nightclubs, were sweet;
their names are lost to me now, but
Good god they were beautiful.
Along the gender lines I have never exactly
Been a shining example; all they do is confuse and
belittle us out of expectations.
I don’t want to answer or ask questions
That expect a pre meditated answer by ancestral lineage.
So, perhaps, when I finally join the choir;
either the invisible or the one down the street,
sex and gendered life would not worry me,
and perhaps, my lonesome rose-tinted glasses
would find a fabulous new home on my dead, yet pretty, face.