Dear Lover,
I’ve been keeping you a secret. My mother thinks you attend college in Queens and wait tables at a nice restaurant. She doesn’t know about your ghetto tattoos or that all of your shirts are three times as big as you. She doesn’t know that you still dress like you’re 13, and that you don’t like to read, or that you drink every night and have 3 square meals with your weed.
My Daddy doesn’t know about your illegitimate kid, nor that you never set an alarm to get up for your minimum wage job. Daddy doesn’t know that you’re 22 without a high school degree, or of your unawareness in the differences between there, their, and they’re, Picasso, and Stravinsky.
You have no remarkable skills. I embellish you, make up things you never could do, slap on some sparkle, add butter, and shine. We walk in a dream, reality, denied. You aren’t the kind of guy a girl drags home to her parents, blushing, and gushing, because there’s no space in your skinny jeans for love deterrents. There are so many things that you just don’t do. I’m ashamed to say I’m ashamed of you.