Home   Home

a handicapped chameleon and your autonomous charm

by Lauren Singer

i must become a chameleon to get out of this alive.
it all sounds so repetetive and classical,
eternal return, everything is circular,
cylindrical, elliptical, what means atrophy,
apathy, circulation askew through veins pumping atom bombs.
i'd like to be a missionary, take it all up on my back,
reassure the masses, lend a blind man a broken compass.
i can't find charity in this selfish hole.

we sit outside, broken conversation,
for a moment it is just the two of us,
the grass is so wet and frosted
i can't tell which is skin exposed or soggy cloth
against my back. you lay down and i clench my knees,
my teeth chattering so hard and i don't know
whether it's because you make me so nervous
or if i'm cold. i blame the goosebumps on you.
we're overtired and slightly drunk,
the party stayed inside and we say nothing for a while.

the sky is black and blue, twisted with a white so
drenched in fog and weight it looks as though it
will fall at any moment, and we are chicken littles
against the world, prepared and stoic.
you say, "the moon is over there, it's behind that cloud,
you'd never know it, it's so thick outside."
i don't respond, and silently make wishes
imagining telepathy and infinite understanding.
"i wish that you'd look at me,
i wish that you'd care for me,
i wish that you'd stay for me,
i wish that you'd try for me,
i wish that you wanted me."

we are interrupted in our silence
by a beautiful girl with fire-red hair
that sweeps across shoulders and envelops wind.
she is vulouptuous and brilliant, with eyes so wide,
always laughing. she makes resentment impossible.
i suddenly feel bland, curl up tighter in my body,
throw my hair over my legs and hug myself in an embrace
no one else is willing to give.
she asks you to take her home, and you oblige
because she's beautiful, and even though she's
sleeping with a friend of yours, i think
that you might love her.

i stay on the grass for a long time after you leave
and listen to the dancing, stomping, music
coming from the party in my bedroom
that i don't feel invited to.
there is another girl that loves you here,
i go inside and she is sitting on my bed reflecting
on the same thoughts i cannot express.
she doesn't know about me, she confides and i wish
that i could tell her how i empathize,
how your ambiguity rips holes in securities and
your eye-contact shreds pride and your voice grates glass
and how everything sounds so true when you say it.
but i can't tell her, and only listen,
i say i understand, and it's just casual, really.

i remember how you grabbed my face and brought it
up against yours so that i could taste your breath
and feel you blinking on my cheeks.
i said, "i don't know about you,"
you replied with "what's not to know?"
and i muttered something about illusivity and walked away.

i wash my hands and hair and back and legs
and chest and stomach, groin and cheeks and lips,
and everything you've ever touched in hopes
that the memories will fade.
(and they don't and i cry in the shower and i hate you
for making this so hard for me, you'll only leave,
to sit by the ocean and to charm yourself into
the lives of other girls who see your glow.)

i'll survive this as a chameleon,
and remain mundane, and let you go.

03/12/2006

Posted on 03/12/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Becca Kinser on 10/26/06 at 12:15 AM

I don't know why the hell no one has commented on this. Maybe it's because it's so good, there's nothing left to say - but I might as well just say that. Most longer poems lose me midway - I'm far too scatterbrained. But this is so incredible and unfortunate because we've all been here. It's such a disgusting place to be. But like I said, this is so good.

Return to the Previous Page
 

pathetic.org Version 7.3.2 May 2004 Terms and Conditions of Use 0 member(s) and 2 visitor(s) online
All works Copyright © 2024 their respective authors. Page Generated In 0 Second(s)