I'm Not That Girl

There I was, trapped
by two blue diamonds
and the flash of those so-straight teeth;
it's not my fault I forgot myself --
who could remember someone like me
in the face of someone like him?

I didn't remember that girl,
that plain, unremarkable girl,
who waits patiently to see me
in the bathroom mirror every morning,
who never forgets me,
who doesn't forget or fail to tell me
that girls like me
don't get guys like him.

So he smiled --
the well-mannered boy that his momma raised --
and the brutal force of it shoved that girl right out of my head.
How could I help what I did?

I smiled back.
It was weak,
like a housecat posturing
at a feline jungle warrior;
a crooked, dim-lit grin.
It was hungry,
and hopeful.
What could I do after that?

The hope leapt out too quick
to be disguised as anything but a milder cousin
of the same damn thing,
and he knew what I thought before I did.

So what was there for him to do
but fade the brilliance slowly out
and shift those gentle blues away --
politely, so politely --
and call that plain, plain girl back home
to roost in my head
where she belongs?