Perfect postcard picture.
You and me sipping wine in front of a fire place.
Somewhere in the mountains, 
Or held up in a cabin atop green hills far away
But here’s reality, 
That’s not now nor any day.
Merely parked in your coupe,
That I only see when you wanna do 
Miss Good wrong.
Never a pillow top 
Why do I lay down on asphalt? 
Why…well how…naw back to why?

Monday:	Tears in my eyes.
Tuesday:	Hearing more lies.
Wednesday: 	I’m done crying.
Thursday:	I Think Miss’s souls is dying.
Friday:	You come around surprising.
Saturday:	I’m parting my thighs and,
Sunday:	You’re still out of hiding.

You’re doing good.
Carving our names in oak trees.
Making up for the wrong,
And keeping your nails clean.
But to prove how much I love you,
I gotta come with a dozen of things,
Walk on egg shells,
And try not to miss…I mean mess
Up at all.
Gotta be past perfect and not fall.
All for my man who caresses a forty ounce
And ignores me.

I wanna go home to my grandmamma
To pick green beans and pepper peas
Minding to make sure my skirt’s pressed neatly.
But no.
The mail man won’t run,
So that postcard picture 
That I envisioned
Will never come.