my back hurts. the one bad chef
at my favorite venue burned
my chicken fingers, and I scraped
the roof of my mouth
at least thrice
when I ate them. and because I’m
sick, I’m drinking nothing
but orange juice, and
it stings.
this guy playing a song about
how he loves
a generic “pretty girl”,
just because she is
so generically pretty,
is terrible. speaking of
generic pretty girls, that girl
in the red dress
is probably your type. she’s
sitting right
in front of you. you’re probably
gonna marry her
and have a million babies.
whatever. I don’t care.
my name hasn’t been called
in the roll call yet, what if
I got skipped somehow?
I hate everyone, myself
most of all. after each
performance I clap
hard enough to hurt my hands
but it’s out of anger
because I want
everyone to shut up and go
away except you, and
I’m so mad at you right now
for that rude song you played
that I want you to
go away too, just faster.
please kill me before I have
to listen to another girl
sing in a cutesy manner
and stand on stage
being someone you’d rather fuck
than me. the tendons in my neck
feel like they’re made of
piano wire, strung too tightly,
about to break. I am an organism
made up of pain
and held up
with strings, like a
marionette. cut me open
and watch as my guts
spill out, unspooling
like thread.
R. Brookes McKenzie 