Maybe I need to be the center of attention.
She certainly is, at least with the bartender
and the older man
with Jean Nate,
me in the middle,
talked over and around
when I think
“But this is supposed
to be about my birthday,”
and all I want for a present
is for her, big,
amazing eyes
to turn in my direction,
the need to feel
important to her again,
when I know I’m not.
This silly child inside me,
needy as a new born
and perhaps just as
pathetic,
needing someone to
change my diaper
or pat me on the back
until I burp,
scared and lonely,
even in her company,
and so, I decide to go home,
and leave, she, I think,
able to get any man
in that bar to keep her company.
She does not need me.
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