I’d kind of hoped we’d hit it off and have a secret affair.
We’d talk about grammar and syntax in our underwear.
I’d wear my laciest, raciest lingerie for you
And we’d play lots of Scrabble.
And I’d be complacent as your mistress
And never cause any trouble.
But you, Sir, fucked it up, when you gave me a B.
Because I’m not some mediocre girl
And if that you cannot see,
Then I’ll abruptly end my infatuation like this run-on sentence
Tear it into two and not desire repentance.
You may think I’m weak and silly and simply fall to pieces,
But I’m not quite as convoluted as you thought my thesis.
For now my wonderful essays are doomed in your hands to fester,
But I’m getting them, and my dignity back, at the end of the semester.
published 11 June 2011