I hate Crocs
They remind me of test tube holders
Which remind me of Chemistry Lab
Which reminds me of my 9th Grade teacher who made me cry
Tears, which have chemicals - sodium, hydrogen, something.
If I could pick them off my cheeks
And pin them to a sheet
I would put it in a card and post it to you
And I wouldn't forget your pin code
And to lick the stamp
To make sure you get it
To make sure you know I miss you.
"P.S", it'll say; "P.S: It's okay. These things happen".
I hate Crocs
Because they look like they smell bad
I always imagine the person's smelly foot
And then I think of the birthmark underneath my left foot
Which my sister convinced me was some dirt I stepped on
Because it's brown.
It's right in the middle of all the drunken lines
Criss-crossing across my sole.
Like the drunken lines
Criss-crossing across my soul.
Are they the same as the ones on my palms?
You know, the lines I use to take notes when I don't have paper
If you put your hands together, the lines match; it's like magic.
What if the lines are for every decision I ever took?
Honey Mustard or French Onion? Left or right? Pro-life or pro-choice? Walk or run?
Stay or leave? Stay or leave? Stay or leave?
Or maybe the lines are a map
Point A to point B.
I start on my left hand, and fall off the edge of my right.
I hate Crocs
Sometimes, if you look carefully, they can look alive
You know the holes in them?
They could very well be eyes.
Why name them Crocs anyway?
Is it because crocodiles swallow their prey whole?
They just sit there, with their mouths open, waiting.
Like me on Saturday evenings, my heart open
Waiting to leave home, waiting for love,
Waiting for That Teenage Experience,
Waiting for next month's allowance,
Waiting for my hair to grow,
Waiting for you to wait for me,
Waiting to go back home.
You can divide the world into two kinds of people -
Those who like Crocs, and those who don't.
You can keep dividing the world
Like how you would an apple pie
One for Ma, one for Pa,
Two for me, because I'm youngest.
Cut it smaller and smaller until you can hardly see it.
Until you can't even feel it in between your fingers
Like a cell splitting over and over and over again
To form a tissue, to form the world
Which can be divided into four kinds of people -
Those who sleep on their stomachs,
Those who keep their eyes open under water,
Those who believe in love,
And those who wear socks with their Crocs.
They remind me of test tube holders
Which remind me of Chemistry Lab
Which reminds me of my 9th Grade teacher who made me cry
Tears, which have chemicals - sodium, hydrogen, something.
If I could pick them off my cheeks
And pin them to a sheet
I would put it in a card and post it to you
And I wouldn't forget your pin code
And to lick the stamp
To make sure you get it
To make sure you know I miss you.
"P.S", it'll say; "P.S: It's okay. These things happen".
I hate Crocs
Because they look like they smell bad
I always imagine the person's smelly foot
And then I think of the birthmark underneath my left foot
Which my sister convinced me was some dirt I stepped on
Because it's brown.
It's right in the middle of all the drunken lines
Criss-crossing across my sole.
Like the drunken lines
Criss-crossing across my soul.
Are they the same as the ones on my palms?
You know, the lines I use to take notes when I don't have paper
If you put your hands together, the lines match; it's like magic.
What if the lines are for every decision I ever took?
Honey Mustard or French Onion? Left or right? Pro-life or pro-choice? Walk or run?
Stay or leave? Stay or leave? Stay or leave?
Or maybe the lines are a map
Point A to point B.
I start on my left hand, and fall off the edge of my right.
I hate Crocs
Sometimes, if you look carefully, they can look alive
You know the holes in them?
They could very well be eyes.
Why name them Crocs anyway?
Is it because crocodiles swallow their prey whole?
They just sit there, with their mouths open, waiting.
Like me on Saturday evenings, my heart open
Waiting to leave home, waiting for love,
Waiting for That Teenage Experience,
Waiting for next month's allowance,
Waiting for my hair to grow,
Waiting for you to wait for me,
Waiting to go back home.
You can divide the world into two kinds of people -
Those who like Crocs, and those who don't.
You can keep dividing the world
Like how you would an apple pie
One for Ma, one for Pa,
Two for me, because I'm youngest.
Cut it smaller and smaller until you can hardly see it.
Until you can't even feel it in between your fingers
Like a cell splitting over and over and over again
To form a tissue, to form the world
Which can be divided into four kinds of people -
Those who sleep on their stomachs,
Those who keep their eyes open under water,
Those who believe in love,
And those who wear socks with their Crocs.
