Dissected wardrobe, my closet’s a blur
Nothing stands out, nothing’s superb
To wear to our shindig, that’s starting at nine
But inside I’m rockets and missiles
Finger nails polished, not my favorite thing
I hate the smell and sometimes it stains
Those facts are ignored as I lint brush my skirt
Wearing the best threads my money could afford
My pockets slightly hurt
Will he notice how painstakingly I prepped?
Flower lotus bomb waiting on his steps?
He ignites my internal nuclear thermal
Electrocuting nerve ends
Turning on the lights
At my party.
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