a.n.: non autobiographical, i don’t feel sorry for myself today.
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I’d like to pick apart the lives of others, but I usually end up in front of myself.
I’d like to stop your moment on the way to work or dropping off your kids or when your husband catches you fucking somebody else.
I want to know who else is like me in your life, how much do I matter, what lies have you told me today.
I want to take your minutes and burn a clean line down their middles and crack their bones separate and stretch their spines, reach in and hold their hearts and let them flutter in my palm fatty bloody I’d squeeze it maybe too hard we’ll see who calls the shots now.
I’d like to know what your moment is like when your father’s drunk again or your mother doesn’t take her medicine.
But I usually find myself in front of myself, angry that I just stepped in your space angry that you refused me angry that you think you’re right angry that you belittle me and have sapped every single breath of fresh air from my lungs sucked it out I saw it go the wrong way through the exhaust pipe of your mini-van.
It’s tiring, this self-deprecating behavior. I want to float along somewhere and cry myself unconscious, what a mediocre piece of writing. Rejection is my friend, time and time again.
