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By Chloe Phillips.

I blow things up
for a living, so I guarantee that

I can do your taxes.
I’ll put on my uniform if you ask:

I’m a volunteer firefighter, full-time pimp;
I made $5,000,000 last year—

that’s irrelevant. I’m known for being funny,
like six-pack inducing funny;)

My friends describe me as a bowl
in a china shop. I’m hoping you’ll be the one

who makes my grandparents stop asking why
I’m single. Swear I’m better than a vibrator,

serious as death (ha-ha) I want babies.
I’ll laugh if you fall but will help you up after.

Hit me up if you like bad boys:
I’m bad at everything so let’s start

a podcast or a pyramid scheme,
you choose. Real romance is

committing felonies together. I’m a 10,
but only due to inflation, part-time

ventriloquist, treasure hunter. I don’t know
if I’m attractive, but every time I go

in the bathroom and take my clothes off,
the shower gets turned on. I may look

like a tool . . . because I am . . . I do also have
a lot of tools, though. I’m the type of guy who

will hold the door and slap your ass on the way in.
Baby, let’s play doctor. I’ll start. You owe me $3,200.

Modern girls and old-fashioned men
can still sometimes be compatible in bed:

I have good morals and a foul mouth.
Make my parents adore you and my neighbors

despise you. My family will pay a dowry
at our wedding. I’m smoother than

the cream cheese on your bagel
and don’t mind being whipped. Please

reassure my grandma that I won’t die
alone. I might seem like an eighty-year-old

man, but to be completely honest, I really love
sex. You. Me. The starry woods at night.

Naked. I’ll grow a mustache for you to play
with because I want to be the dumbest smart

person in your life. Will fix whatever I break.
Not looking for anything serious, just a wife,

kids, and dog for my house in the Hamptons.
I get way too excited about knives and furniture,

often smell like wildfire smoke and pine tar
if you’re into that. Promise I’ll only ever ruin

your lipstick, never your mascara, won’t judge
if you didn’t enjoy having your hair pulled

in elementary school but do now. You look like
a Hollywood actress. I need your number for insurance

purposes because I got injured falling in love with you.
I’m not the best but better than your last; my therapist says

I’m a catch. Looking for the lime to my Corona so
how about once upon a time . . . we went to Margaritaville?

Review by a friend: he’s like a Sour Patch Kid,
even if he may appear sour at times, once you take a bite

and get to know him, he’s actually pretty sweet.
Airplane conversationalist, sugar daddy in training.

Did you know that a baby falls around 200 times
on average before learning how to walk?

The quickest way to my heart is by pushing me down
the stairs. I sometimes wash my lights and darks together,

so I like living on the edge. Perfect first date: suicide pact.
Break my heart and I’ll write a song about you.

I have a few questionable tattoos. 6’1” but can’t digest
lactose so let me know which matters more.

What makes a relationship great is . . . the quantity
and quality of its sexual escapades  . . . WTF autocorrect!

I wrote open communication, I promise. Howdy!
I’m a fun-size Kit Kat that is seasonal and hard to come by.

Look at the last guy you matched with, now back to me,
now back to the last guy you matched with, now back to me.

That baby isn’t mine. When I went to college, my mom
adopted a cat and named it after me so I couldn’t live

at home again. I’ll always have your back no matter what
hole you dug yourself into . . . or I dug for you.

The strongest opinion I hold is that subway rats
should be allowed to vote. What if I told you

that I’m Batman? The inner machinations
of my mind are an enigma. I know

the best spot in town for illegal activity.
Ask me out by committing a blood sacrifice

in my name. Together, we could go graveyard dancing.
I’m weirdly attracted to women who look like

they could kill me. All I ask is that you have a god
complex. I hit a priest once, but it was an accident.

Looking for a submissive live-in girlfriend
and eventual housewife. I don’t trust anyone

who can’t sleep in a cold room. Dating me
is like having a raccoon in your garage

and driving a new Maserati down a dead-end street.
I’m convinced that the last time I was somebody’s type,

I was donating blood. The hallmark
of a good relationship is being able to cancel plans

to stay at home in our pajamas.
I want the kind of love that feels like always

having the cool side of my pillow to sleep on.
Please be an angel and ruin my life.


CHLOE PHILLIPS is a poet and an editor.  She currently lives in New York and is a Poetry MFA candidate at Sarah Lawrence College.

Image credit: edit:lineartestpilot




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