They All Cry For You

Is My Writing Bad?

"Do you think I'd make a good stripper?"

"What?," the question caught him off guard.

"Would I be too thin?"

"I never took you as a sexual person."

"I'm not, I just. . . haven't. . . I don't know."

An awkward moment of silence ensued as the both of them shifted in their seats, the heavy burden of answering the question resting on his shoulders.

"I really never took you as the sexual type. . . um, I guess, if you wanted to. . . you could be g-good at it."

"Yeah. I could sell coke too, you think?"

"Well no that's-"

"I could work at McDonald's. I could do them all at the same time."

He didn't answer, looking around the room for a cue to say something, or some sign that she was joking.

"Wouldn't you wanna do anything better, though? Like, I always thought you had good grades, didn't you? Don't you like to write or something?"

"I do. . . have good grades, and I do like to write, but I don't think I'm really cut out for it. I don't think I'd make it as a writer. You know, some things just don't work out."

"Why not?"

"I'm just not that good."

"So. . . stripping would be your next option?"

She was overwhelmed with a feeling of inadequacy and worthlessness, reflected by her crude choice of occupation. She thought that, besides a failure, there was nothing lower that she could be. 

"Yes."

(I know this isn't a poem, but I just haven't been feeling well lately)