Loser

my friends think you’re a loser

twenty-four years old

never growing past eighteen

where your ranges peak

my friends think you’re strange

with your odd remarks

and jokes that they don’t get

my friends think you’re a creep

women’s bodies like buildings

you think you can demolish

and you must think “that’s rich”

when i’m that weird girl

who you find revolting

and see as a loser

but honestly,

the shoe fits us both.

i’ll walk in it

knowing you’re right,

i’m peculiar, i’m vile.

but my friends are right,

you are a loser,

but you were a trophy in my eyes

and you were never mine

i loved you,

the red-cheeked loser

and i wish i still could

but your mural is fading,

your mausoleum left in ruins.