Sour Puss

I mean, I get it. I should have seen you from a hundred miles away. "Opportunist" is what you are. I carefully curated a section of this city and it is what it is not because or in spite of me but it's fucking mine because I set that flag pole into the dirt and proclaimed it to be so and it was. I let you in. I showed you things, told you how it was, shared the history and the mystery and the soundtrack that went with it and you backstabbed me in the most obvious and painful way. The women in my world are real with eachother and we don't hold back. I tell you the truth and you balk. I agree with you and you wonder why. I try to pantomime the five years I have on you and you turn your head. You make poor decisions and maybe your father is right, maybe you are selfish. Not maybe, you are. It's not enough for you, you crave bad decisions and you bask in the limelight that really is just a flickering bar light hovering over your phony halo. I'm mad, it's true but you knew you knew this would hurt me and you went boldly ahead in your plans. Did you want him to fuck you? Is that what this is about? You can't feel like you know a place until you fuck everyone in it? Why do you have to do that? What is the story here? What am I missing? Because all I see as far as Idaho is a girl with no solid footing in a place she hardly knows and men that hardly care to give her the tour outside of their bedroom.