Feel Bad

Please, spare me your attempts. 
I’m a victim of my own 
self-fulfilling prophecy. 
Not even lucky enough 
for it to be cast down 
by the Almighty, 
but rather manifested 
out of untold lies 
and chalky lips. 
I’m not looking for 
really anything 
close to the comfort 
of a silk sheet set. 
The sheets that feel like sandpaper, 
35 grit. 
Give me those. 
Remember? 
Those ones from the 
Motel 6. 
I blame my culture, I blame everyone 
but myself 
for the failing relationships 
I’ve littered throughout my life
as if they were rose petals 
on that motel bed, 
spread by young lovers 
on a presumptuous Valentine’s 
Day. Give me a room key, 
my pins and needles are ready. 
They’re waiting for me
to jump in.