the same book that binds us
tears us along the spine
where we’ve fallen into cracks
unseen by words on the page
if we could close the cover
or open up to page one
perhaps we could see
where the story would take us
instead we skim
unable to truly read
forgetting how without the words
we wouldn’t be here
you’re right
there are poems
they aren’t nice
but there’s no way
you read them
one slur
one cuss
one moment of frustration
and i’m gone
until you see me in august
right there beside you
or will i be placed
as before
at the back of the room
my own seat
my own misery
uselessness surrounding me?
you
ARE
in
the
nightmares
of
rejection
with that stupid click
of one
cold
button.
you may as well be a ghost
because you’ve haunted me more than most.
why do i have to see you here
when i’m surrounded by holiday cheer?
you’re embarrassed, though you won’t admit it
it is not my sin that you committed.
if you disliked the person you came to know
then why did you put on such a show?
i don’t edit, though it’s caused me pain
at least i’m real; you’re filled with shame.
perhaps those who love me are few and far
but at least i know how to say au revoir.
Are we all (as my mother says)
self-absorbed Americans
bragging about our travels,
our milestones, our children,
our every little stupid success
in an age when technology
brings us together
and tears us apart?
What is the purpose
of these tools I use to write
these words, of
sending a message out
to potentially thousands,
but really only a few,
readers of my news?
And while I’m asking,
when will this bring,
instead of frustration
and anxiety, a sense
of belonging, of relief,
as I have begged for it to?
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