a poem in all the wrong ways - 1st draft
after leila chatti
No birds. No stars. No one remembering how they’re
dead but how brilliant they are. No one saying that
the sun’s just another star, no shaping it in the face of
a lover long lost. No more other realities. No more other lives.
The truth is that we get this one and then we blow it
before we ever had the chance. Again, no birds. No more
metaphors about how they’re flying and how they’re free.
I can’t stand being so full of envy anymore. No more you.
Who in God’s name is the you, ever, anyways? This poem
isn’t for you. I want it to be for me. I want to be selfish in
a piece for once. I’m so tired nowadays. There are no
bird wings or Greek muses that could change that. I’m scared,
and it is not poetic. There is no rebirth that makes this better.
It doesn’t matter that we see the same moon at night, or
the fact that you can pretend I’m the lover stuck in it. I’m just
angry all the time that it saw you first. Would you still love me
if you didn’t have to. If I didn’t say that you’re the one in some
flash fiction piece where you save me. Would you still love me if
you knew how hopeless I was. I said this poem wasn’t for you, but
maybe I’m just angry all the time that you can only appear in stanzas,
anyways. I will make no euphemisms. I am hurt and alone.