gossamer petals on the
fabric of too much elation.

we laugh because we are too afraid
to cry.

he said,
"you try too hard,
or not enough."

these are all very pretty words,
very tragic words,
very wordy words.
they sure are words.

i never tried to be right with it.

the cruelest objective
is figuring it all out
the moment you die,
so just as you may understand it all
you lose the ability to do anything with it.

he laughed at it.
called me idyllic.

as if cynicism or hope could be downplayed
as juvenility.

wanting to pinch his red cheeks between my fingers,
shake off the buttons on his shirt
wring his pudgy little neck,
just to see him break his structured grandiose,
to muss his comb-over.

he sat me down and called me
"adolescent, but reaching"
or something twisted around those words
that meant i had something more to say
than what i showed him.

and he kept using phrases gently
like daggers into me that i could be
so much more than a silver-tongued vulgarity,
premiscuous and drunk.

surely, a sestina more appealing
than descriptions of my menstrual blood?

and in uniformed fashion
of my stubborn self i thanked him, coy
and proceeded to masturbate
all over his briefcase.

05/26/2007

Posted on 05/26/2007
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer