Strychnine

hungry, little pussycat?

I’ve got a glass
of milk.

liquid, solid.

mine kills the mice
that feast on the crops,
reaping all

that they never sowed.

I will not
I will not
I will not
I will not

press a button
for tomatoes,
sickened by a
jaundice spreading
from the top.

rotting, like the
famous uncle
who pressed before you.

the one who believed
melanin
determines
lack of worth.

copulation is a choice

while

procreation is the outcome,

but though I scare
enough to where
I’ve accepted that
I will adopt,

being twenty-five without
a closet of diapers
does not determine
lack of worth.

I will not
I will not
I will not
I will not

give Ariel a read.

not yet.

I am shaking.

one word closer to asking
how, with your logic,
with your presuming
that I, some kind of person
who sifts through the trash,

a high school dropout
you yell at
to pay for the Bachelor’s
you believe you’re owed,

– maybe for the way
you lick the rim of
your alabaster professor’s
coffee mug –

I do not know.

I should not conclude.

as you’ve declared
I’ve ruined your life.

what’s owed is owed,
and that patch
of red velvet cake
adorned with petals,

white and almost translucent,
as the result of a tango
danced horribly.

over and
over and
over and
over and
over and
over and

under
the abs
which have
softened with time
as the lines on his forehead
deepen with each shrill scream.

look at yourself,
listen to yourself,

and bend.

all the way down.

not for him,

but for those panties.

and I think before you smirk
and yell to get your way –

though it works in a city
where everyone’s a beautiful
Nobel Laureate, but not
the kind of beautiful
Charles Barkley
wants in a contemporary
pinup calendar,

it won’t work with me.

and alone as I am,
at least I have the comfort
of knowing
I try not to bother.

yet I bother with you
and despite these rapid breaths,
you are still a human.

a special kind of rapist,
but a human.

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6 thoughts on “Strychnine

  1. I think there is a lot of anger and pain there and different people will read different things in it. That is the beauty of poetry. Sometimes the angry ones, the ones that bleed pain are the most beautiful. Everyone experiences pain, so it is a common ground we can all relate to. Not everyone gets to have joy and sunshine and butterflies.

    Liked by 1 person

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