Riley M. Ruen

Butter is a matter made of fat,
that’s a matter of fact
So let’s cut into that

‘Cause I spread butter on my toast at most
In pre-proportioned teaspoons,
that’s when he moons
Enamored by the glamour of witty banter with a girl out of his league

But this girl is fatigued

because she can never go around buttering herself up saying
“I’m gorgeous”

Sitting across from a man,
whose biggest fan is his reflection

I’m given a lack of attention
from his misguided self-affection

Hot tension in suspension
you’d think it’s the smoking section

Not to mention his dimensions—
he must have hypertension

The result, of spooning heaps of hydrogenated fat lipids, not restricted
How is this not scripted?

Saying I don’t deserve a raise, or any praise

The soft butter melted off of his lips,
and dripped on to his hips,
as his figure grew bigger,
I knew I needed to get out of this dinner

‘Cause how could I bond with a man who is always buttering himself up
lubricating his arteries with qualities he didn’t possess,
it leaves a girl in distress
This dress is a mess.
I’m not good enough to be caressed.

Because when one man can take up all the ego in a room it leaves you with
nothing.

No butter for my bread, or to ease the stress in my head

It was all about him

The things he did on a whim
How he went out with me “on a limb”
It was a “chance” that he threw me a glance
like this was some type of advance

But for a man as plain as white bread, butter is not going to help him

Milking a one-sided conversation
from a temptation of flirtation

Giving me a presentation
on how to choke,
shoving it down my throat
Churning in my stomach,
this mass of yearning
is curdling

This date has expired after what has transpired

This girl takes a stand.
To stick it to the man because she’s not a big fan