three days ago
I thought I had something
to tell you. it seemed
very important
to my sleep-deprived brain.
now I think
maybe it doesn’t matter.
it won’t change
a thing, and you don’t
care. I’ve gotten
some sleep, and my
blood has cooled, and
I’ve seen some things
that made me think.
why do I bother
to torture myself
over things that don’t matter
to anyone but me?
if I knew the answer
to that, maybe I’d know
what a difference
those three days
made.
you made me
love you, and then you
spurned me, and
the bitter poison
of that rankles still.
your predecessor was
even worse, thus
I find myself
hypersensitive.
I’m sorry
that I’m such a passive-aggressive weirdo
who causes drama
and pretends to be
so haughty and aloof
when in fact I am a boiling mess
of seething feelings
that I try so hard
to cover up
and deny because
the last thing I want to admit
is that I still care
way too much
when it was never warranted.
there was never an us.
you’ve said it
time and time again.
I know. but it rankles
like a thorn in my paw
and I can’t bear to admit
that I wasn’t your type.
I’m sorry
that I made you think
that I no longer value you
as a friend and as an artist
when that was never
the case.
I just can’t bear
to be straight with people
when the situation makes me
feel lesser than, unwanted,
not good enough. I have way
too much pride.
you deserved better.
you were a good friend
to me when I needed it.
you tried to let me down easy,
but I insisted
on making it hard.
my whole life
I’ve had to learn
everything the hard way.
I guess
this is no exception.
I can feel the madness
coming on:
it creeps
like beetles in my
blood it cranks up
my brain higher and
higher it makes me
so high that I don’t
want to sleep
even though
my bones are weary
rest has to sneak up
on me and knock me
out I wake up
too soon
by midnight
I’m off again
the leash on my
thoughts gets longer
I can shoot my mind into
the stratosphere
with ease
even as the cells
of my body get
more electric
I am full of moonlight
but down below
lurks darkness waiting
to hold me in its
slow death embrace.
I’ll dance as long as
these red shoes
hold up.
I have thrown away
the banana
that was
on the counter
and which
you were probably
saving
for some reason
forgive me
it was rotten
so rank
and so foul
I can feel it, when you’re
thinking about me. it
gives me power. you’re
sending out vibes
and I’m receiving them,
right in the sacral chakra.
thank you for your
worship. it has been
noted. when the revolution
comes and patriarchy
is overthrown, I’ll put in a
good word for you.
this time
last year, I sat crying
in a prison of my own making,
unable to see that the door
was already open
and it had been
all along. this time
last year, I was too busy
chasing after someone
who didn’t want me
to see that there were,
in fact, other fish in the sea,
and that one in particular
was giving me
the eye. this time last
year, I was a fool. a sad,
silly, oblivious fool; a bud
curled so tightly
into my misery that
I didn’t know it was
time to open.
now I can look back
on that girl and be glad
that she finally took
that first little step
towards something
better.
really I’m the worst. so busy
being spiteful, so jealous because
a pretty girl made me feel
ugly, a skinny girl made
me feel fat, a popular girl
made me feel left out, lesser than,
that I didn’t get it: she may be
all of those things, but only I
can make myself small
in spirit. I may not be
shaped like her but
only I can make myself
ugly. who among us hasn’t
tried to fit in? tried to be
what we think everyone wants?
I was just enraged because
I thought her being the way
she was took something
away from me.
she’s all right. I mean
not my cup of tea, and
I really don’t get
all the hype, but okay.
whatever. I’m
probably just
jealous. I just think
that one should have
to work a little bit harder
to get all the accolades.
it seems there is such
a thing as a free lunch.
if you’re cute enough
and can play your instrument
even remotely competently,
they will rave. duly
noted. the next time
I’m born I’ll try
harder to be hotter.
her heart is a dusty tome
waiting for you
to read it. her thoughts
are the tone poem
in the background
of your dreams.
her shadow contains
multitudes, strange sentences
in a foreign language
that you’ve never heard before,
whispering secrets
too soft to hear.
her silence speaks
with the susurrations
of the surf and the tides.
her darkness
calls to yours.
do you hear it?
R. Brookes McKenzie 