Luxury Problems (Must be Nice, asshole)

You collect women like cigarettes

Burn the ones that taste too much like truth

Say you’re haunted

But we both know

You just don’t like silence

You left town in someone else’s bed

Then texted me like the apocalypse

Had my name still stuck in your teeth

A souvenir of where you used to eat

Luxury problem: you feel too seen

So you throw tantrums inside your dreams

You call it art

We call it a pattern

You want chaos—but only if it’s flattering

You said “I love you”

Then locked the door

Your girlfriend’s name still warm on the floor

You cheat like it’s jazz

Improvised lies

Fingertips soft

But your mouth—weaponized

Respect in your mouth tastes like gasoline

You hand it out just to keep women clean

But I remember the friction

The couch

Your breath

You say “nothing happened”—

Then touch me like death

Luxury problem: the truth won’t bend

You play victim, then touch again

Say you miss me, and then you run

You don’t want love

You want reruns

You’re not haunted

You’re just loud

You’re not broken

Just too proud

You’re not sorry

You’re just seen

And I won’t kneel for your machine

Luxury problem: I was the cure

But you’d rather stay unsure

You want soft skin, sharp mind

But only when it’s undefined

So I’ll name it now:

You lost me

The last real thing

In your economy