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The poet began to drown in multiplying angst.
You stand unfortified-
I try and offer a pitiful consolation prize- a papery hug like an envelope.
Reasonless hurting, continues.
“Let’s talk about it,” I said. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Is there room in this atmosphere for words? I forget how people usually speak anyways. What words do people usually say to you when you’re sad?
You speak, yet all I can say is:
Conversation officially slaughtered.
You started to apologize for being so much work to be around. I can’t let you apologize. No “sorrying.” No. Stop it.
The language we made up does s*** for me right now. I’m a mute.
I want to yell. Shout, whisper, scream- “Who gave you the RIGHT?” to pain.
My anger results only in a million exclamation marks and capitalized expletives pouring out of my mouth. Nothing happens, but of course it doesn’t. I am useless.
On Thanksgiving I decided to adopt your family. During Christmas time I would have decorated your house with gold leaf if I knew your cats wouldn’t destroy it before you came home.
But I am nothing.
I am a clown with a cheerful face running down like tears. Keeping happy, keeping happy...
I am a monkey with a cymbal, chiming on without end. My mouth opens, my tongue moves, and all that comes out is sound.
I am a single crab scuttling around. I pick up a single grain of sand and throw it into the ocean, determined to rid you of trouble.
I’m a dead body, I am crucified, I’ve already hung myself, death penalty suicide, on the charge of uselessness.
I am a jackpot for righteous rage.
I am useless. Nothing.
When I was little I was sure I could kill death. I could do anything, really. I wanted to mellow sorrow.
Now I dream of soothing pain into a deep sleep, then slitting its throat. Vicious tendencies seem rationalized. It takes an effort to instead bake cookies, hoping the sugar melts away like grief in your mouth.
This poem is useless. It’s for me. I cannot infiltrate your mind, cannot pull a robbery inside your brain. Your cerebrum is overwhelming with input for my anger. This poem is for me. I am not worthy to protect. I am only using each new word to fuel my emotions to fuel these words, which are just ink on a piece of paper to shred.
You should shred them. Call me slanderous.
I used to think of writing as “writing it up,” like writing my pain on a piece of paper gave it wings, made it holy, made it a relic of my own personal religion. But your pain is a rock. It has gravity.
I say “I know. I know.”
Because I don’t know.
I used to end my poems with help.
I like to end my poems with hope. To write it up.
I have little hope, since I must rely on me fortifying you, even though the moment to do so passed by eons ago. This is respect, this is passion, this is flames, this is no medicine. It cannot work on you, but it puts a balm on my own indignation.
My poem curls up into a compact form, a satisfied, fat, lazy cat made of ink and paper. I’ll release it outside once I’m done living off of it, using it to fuel my own anger.
What words should I use? Can I use? Could I use?
I am useless.