She’s standing in the doorframe,
her arms around my notebook.
She holds it like a pistol, points it
and shoots. She points it and shoots.
First she saw me naked
then she drank my juice,
third – she rocked my bed,
and now she’s in on my head.
All my secrets are now out there.
Sad songs left in a punctured lung.
Sung in very annoying voices.
By all the pretty naked girls. Even the first.
What if she knows I’m thinking of others -
what does she ask me then? Worse:
what if she knows I’m thinking of her?
Needn’t ask then. We’ll just communihate.
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