what is it about me that makes me so easy to shout over?
I’m serious. Is it the red hair? Cause you’re wearing a jacket
with Winnie the Pooh on it and if you ask me that’s about as weird
and angry teen thing to do as dye your hair the color of blood.
Why is it that even if I am the most timid, the nicest and most helpful
secretary form of myself, you still find me annoying enough to
effortlessly silence and ignore and call to replace?
There’s gonna be a lot of us in your life you know.
Girls who look you in the eye and try to explain the rules to you.
And maybe you can drown us all out with your screams and
pot-banging and claims of being just so utterly superior in every way.
And I know it’s so easy for you to drown us out, because you’re loud,
and you talk all the time, and you make fun of girls for their gossip
but you’re as much a yammering mess as they are, spewing spit
and laughing big when you’re stupid, because isn’t your complete incompetence so very funny, if only someone could have taught you
literally anything, but oh well, you’ll continue to wander through the
world, stomping and bellowing so hard shaking rooftops with no
consequences, your words, a single syllable can silence thousands
and my words, they could not stifle field mice if they tried.
so here, here
here’s to the girl with eyes too big for her face
here’s to the boy who ties baseballs up with lace
here’s to the they to whom everyday is torture
here’s the wound-up with no outlet
here’s the wound-up with no outlet
here’s to the wound up with cords tucked and tongues stuck no idea what
to say or do that could possibly ever end a you, a person in their life
they can’t hike around, a you, because there are a lot of you’s,
and a lot of us,
all of us at the end of our ropes, wincing when you kick us and and maybe
this is a rather long-winded way to fake-confront a boy who yelled over
me, one of the few girls in a class for a subject full of few girls,
who treated my words like less than dirt, less than a thing you shake off a
shoe, and I ridiculously react with this, a poem meant to be screamed from
a garage rooftop by a psychopath.
and still i wanna say i can move on from it all, I’m strong enough to ignore it
when people pierce a hole in my brain, but i feel everything you say.
I feel all the words as they slice through my veins and you know you’re
wrong and idiot but you don’t, can’t feel, and you were loud as a kid and
told you were spunky and that was fine because spunky boys are nice boys
and nice girls and mice girls and no. no no no.
there isn’t a single wishing stone, broken eyelash, twisted apple, raised fist, first kiss, maple leaf, world relief, new policy, new decision, nuclear incision
that could fix these swine-like little
insufferable
(here’s to the girl with eyes too big for her face)
regrettable
(here’s to the boy who ties baseballs up with lace)
diabolical
(here’s to the they to whom everyday is torture)
pricks.
(here’s the wound-up with no outlet)
here’s to the wound-up with no outlet.