You are yellow, but never mellow unless you've taken
out your anger on my legs.
It's funny, or not if you're me, but for something
so nice, you sure are mean.
Sometimes we work well together and I think that
maybe you are starting to like me.
Then you cut my leg with your slippery pedal and
I know that in an hour I will bruise.
I would cry if I thought you'd care, but you don't
and never will because your heart is metal.
I'd say go to hell, but can bikes die? The
existential doesn't work on you.
I'd plead with you to let me go one week without
your abuse. I can feel your disdain.
I think you're jealous. I'm soft. You are not.
I sleep inside with A/C and you have to stay
chained to the bike rack downstairs. (haha)
Now that I think about it, it almost seems right
that my toll for using you is pain.
Just warn me next time you decide to kiss my legs
with your sharp contours.
That way I won't cuss at you in front of the random
pedestrians we're passing at light speed.
I can take the pain, but it's best if there's at least
one person left on campus who thinks I'm sane.