here is what
I am used to
when it comes to a
relationship: I martyr
myself and let him
get away with murder.
no one understands what
I see in him because he
picks fights with others and
he’s so utterly different
when we’re alone. but
crying over him gives me
something to be dramatic and
put upon about, almost a
purpose, definitely a cross
to bear.
Category: 2016
dawn in the Garden of Good & Evil
I feel like I should
feel bad, but I don’t. I’m not
the one who took
that vow. and that dog was dead
already before I drove by. I can’t
bring myself to begrudge you
one single moment
of happiness. life’s too short
to suffer when
we could be happy. if love
can be snatched from the jaws
of death, let it be done. woe,
be gone. take off
your chains and be
free. I’ll be here
for you through
whatever hell may rain down
on us.
unaccustomed
it’s been so long
since I had this kind
of a workout,
the kind that makes my
whole body ache
in the best possible way.
the new gym
I just joined is amazing.
sometimes when I
have no place to work out
I start to think
that I don’t need it, I’m
just fine without it, I could
live my whole life without ever
doing it again, but then
I find a new place and remember
yes, this is life. there’s more
to being alive than lonely
sessions with a shake
weight. put it this way: I didn’t
join just for the free
t-shirt.
weather report
my vacation
is going swimmingly. please
disregard any postcards you might
receive that may seem to indicate
otherwise. I started those
before I got here,
when I was still
looming and glooming,
lurking and lacking, crying
in the shadows
for fear of coming into
the light, and finished them with
the calm and stillness
that comes from going
through a seemingly infinitely
long tunnel and coming
unexpectedly out
the other side, emerging
into brightness blinking
and bewildered at the beauty
of the simplest mote
of sunlight, and turning around
to look over my shoulder at
the long dark stretch behind,
amazed that I got through it, and
grateful that the light at the end
of the tunnel wasn’t a train,
after all.
proverbs for today
tfw you think you can
protect your heart
by making them mad at you
"I don’t care; I didn’t
want you anyway," she
lied desperately
don’t mind me; just cutting
off my nose to
spite my face again
tried to claw my way
out of the darkness, but
that just made it worse
revised my angry poem
but it still reveals
too much
go ahead, fight back –
at least then I can pretend
you care
bipolar witchy nightmare girl
I may seem like a manic/magic elven/pixie
dream girl. I may even
play one on Twitter.
but those portraits leave out the down side
of the swing. mania
has its price. those girls are
always so whimsical, happy, cute/kawaii,
they never cry
themselves to sleep,
they never set themselves on fire
for love, let alone for hate.
so I’m burning up in here
alone, ’cause I’m searching
for other mystical, half-mythical
creatures, heroic figures
riding up from the West
appearing suddenly in the forest
shrouded in fog and mystery; the Wild
Hunt – that sort of thing.
the knife
I get it; you don’t need to rub
it in. I’m already bleeding
from a thousand self-inflicted wounds,
and you are the knife
that I turn within myself;
that is love, to quote
Kafka. and to think
I felt halfway to happy
for a second.
in sickness
you look good: your recent
illness seems to have
improved your form, or at least
what didn’t kill you
appears to have
made you stronger. I would
never say this to your face, because
I hate it when
people say it to mine, but
it kind of looks like
you’ve lost weight. maybe
it’s just that
wearing a dark color
is more flattering,
a phenomenon I’ve also
experienced.
not that I have the right
to notice, or care – a fact of which
I’m acutely aware – but
it’s so nice
to see you out
and about
again.
new growth
my heart was desolate, a
blasted wasteland where nothing
could grow, I
salted the earth and pulled up
every flower – they weren’t viable,
there was no hope for them – and I thought
I could never feel anything again
but my ever-present
companion, my dark and lonely,
sometimes lovely, bone-deep sadness.
but.
now there’s a chance, somehow
a new shoot is trying
to grow. I watch it in
amazement, touched
by the way life insists
on coming back, no matter
how annihilated
the garden. I’m rooting
for you, little shoot. good
luck. you’ll need it.
Ouija II
who is that girl
who let so many
people beat her up?
we’re so ashamed of her, no wonder
she won’t come forth
to tell her story. have I met her
yet, is it someone
I know? where did she go?
come out, come out
wherever you are. olly-olly
oxenfree.
use the planchette
to spell your name. we’re
doing another roll call.
don’t bother knocking on the table
or making the candles
flutter, we need it
in words.
who’s the girl
who taught herself to read
at age three, who still vividly remembers
the Richard Scarry book
with the picture of Lowly Worm,
she felt so incredibly sad
when she read those words
but didn’t know why
until many years later, because I
was a lowly worm,
crushed under mother’s heel
for so long. how the hell
did that child even know what
“lowly” meant? come, tell us.
even the worm must turn
and have her day.
R. Brookes McKenzie 