She squints some in the midday shame
that walks across her face
She keeps changing lanes without her turn signal
swerving between selfishness and grace
Her decisions hold no worth now
-like eating soup, with a fork
No matter how many resolves she claims
they never really work
A skinny, grey-blue sky rises
from her proverbial cigarette
As she bends her eyes over top of an
insincere compliment
Her loyalty to this diarchy is exhausting
and it's only the beginning
She can't tell the difference anymore
between who's really singing
and who's just moving their lips