It lasts for an hour, a day, a week, forever:
a want to leave; a need to run.
a need to leave; a want to run.
What's the difference?
There's no call from the brain to go, but
it must.
"I am tired, I am sore"
no one is listening.
No one ever has. Spiriting
around tiny hallways, kitchen to couch.
Little feet pad icy beige tiles to
stony blue carpet. "I am tired"
keep going. The looming door is locked
and the windows dim, no one
is home. "I am sore"
does it matter? This race is years
and years long. The tiles are shoddy
and pale now. The carpets are rosy,
second-hand rugs. "I am running-"
keep up, let's go. Out of homes and
into the world. We aren't waiting
for you. Tiles to streets, rugs to grass;
We're out of our walls. "--out of breath"
oh well. If you're just gonna cry, then stop,
see if I care. You are a student in your class
and everyone's hurrying. Without complaint.
What about you? "I am tired"
I know. They are tired, too, but
they are gone, they've fled. Somber
streets, barred doors. The air is thick
with fire working, people screaming and
running.
Little girl, you aren't strong, little one,
but you must fight back. This world
was built to be your fighting ring
though it looks more like a dollhouse.
Dress up pretty, be dainty, be pink,
say it's for you all you like, but
once the same ones you fear are there
gargling on their drool and lowering
their lids as they arch over you, you
small thing, do you feel real power
or is it just theirs? Poor, poor thing
Blink your big young eyes, child,
and don't forget to look up
through your wet lashes. Little girl,
pull your shirt down and chest up
put on tall shoes and short skirts
apply products that don't wash out.
It's what you want, young one.
Big head, little neck,
big chest, little waist
big hips, little legs.
Grab the big ones;
grasp the little one.
I approach each season as if it's my last;
living in quadrants of perfectly timed yet
untimely deaths. The change being my past.
To me, these fates are a pretty safe bet.
After fall, a man in a cheap mask may maim.
After winter, I'll crash before the last melt.
After spring, an old peach tree whose fallen to blame.
After summer, a crushing diagnosis finally felt.
My future is found in increments of months: three,
so I know I'm never safe, my luck will run
in costumes, boots, flowering fields and seas.
Not yet: as I've made it through many seasons, a ton
I simply consistently long for just one year
where I don't tumble towards tied ends with fear
Open my soul and look up:
into the ink-black flowing abyss
and beg for the forgiveness
I will never deserve
after plunging my sharp
evil roots into this red earth.
Open my mouth and let it in:
as the idea of a successful life,
in spirit
in wealth,
thickens in my throat,
bulging my stomach
and letting my torn cheeks
become sore with broken hopes
and dirtied blood which will dry
tart on my fat, lazy lips.
As soon as I said I wish to meet you,
you're gone the next day, no longer of matter.
While there's peace with you after your adieu,
once again, the family's gone to scatter.
I did not know you all that well
though I know your role you'd fulfill.
There's no need to question or dwell,
it's deep in there, my grandfather's will.
While your attention was not easy to seek
especially through that drunken scowl,
it's well known that your love does seep
if not all to your kin, then to your dear fowl.
I am not jealous of that aged, balding bird,
just wish it were me you left more care on,
but I know there's no one else it preferred
not even that evil witch-Aunt Sharon.
They say not to cry over spilled milk, or even beer,
so pay no mind to tears shed as I hold your bones near.
Your neighbors are drinking, laughter bristling
through these thin, cracked walls. Your roommates,
watching a movie don't hear it, feel it, like you do.
Your best friend is playing video games in their chair
you always sit in while your aging family is dealing
out their frayed deck of cards once more this night.
Yet you're here, making me. At least there's music,
nice choices by the way. Your face is smooth and blank
with each stroke, but you pause, and then you smile
at me, brightly. I'd smile back, but you haven't
given me a mouth, will you? We'll see.
I suppose I'm honored, if I can feel honor. An
adventurous Saturday night and you're with me.
Some would say this is sad, but I don't think so
We're keeping each other company, even if
you don't quite truly know it yet.
Mothers cradle their newborns, looking
on with a newfound affection. It crawled
out of her and she loves it.
She strokes the new skin softly and coos
I want to do the same, with my uterus.
1 ounce. I've grown this and it needs me.
It is me. To drag my finger across it's pink cheek
and watch as it wraps a tube around my finger
in a weak grip.
I would curl my lips at it, just like a mother,
bare my teeth in a shower of joy. Put my mouth
against the brand new surface, Life flowing so
close. I want to pinch it. With my teeth. Gnaw
its throat open. My creation; my choice.
This is my agony, my pride, His mistake.
I love it. I am nothing without it. I hate it.