Faking It

I'm looking in all the wrong places,

and if my bare feet

covered in blisters,

and my tired eyes meeting hopeless

submissiveness, under the warm touch

of bubbling red wine,

on a rainy spring evening

were not myself,

who was I? 

I did not have cute
assuming smiles for a narrow back,
and I could not provide
bright and carefree images,
for dark eyes
under yellow streetlights,
my feet were in heels, of course,
so how could I have
pretended that I didn't want more
than the fake gift of fate's appreciation?