You’re Still Poisoning My Poetry and I’m the Volunteered Puppet
In the deepest part of my deadly diary
The part where you don’t even write ‘dear diary’
Rather an anonymous date perhaps as proper proof of ‘here I am’
Flipping the frail pages so far back because you might you actually give a damn
Way in the back, on a pointless page
Lies a date and a little list that sets the stage
A list of things that make me want to punch a wall
Who the hell has a literal list of things that make them want to punch a wall?
Wasn’t it so much easier when I wanted to play with dolls?
And there are only three things on that list
Including the first boy I ever kissed
Writing in charming cursive claims
Three names
Your name
Holds first place
But down two spaces
In last place
Is my own name
And that changes the game
Because sometimes I want to correct the corrupted caption to
‘People I’d like to punch in the face’
Yet in every case
I remember I can’t punch myself
That would be an inconvenience for my health
So I conclude that a wall will do for now
Flip a few more pages to find a different report
In scribbles I write a love note of sorts:
To the boisterous, bad boy who used me some summer ago
Here are a few things I never want you to know
I am still writing petty, poetry about you
Your thought is still the kerosene to my fast, fiery spew
I don’t really get it
How pretty, poetry cures the sorrowed soul
Because I still don’t feel whole
And there wasn’t anything beautifully poetic
About being a plagued puppeteer’s first puppet, first petrified prey
It’s really a cliché that people are supposed to relate to meaty metaphors and sappy similes
As though it is easier
To relate to
The mirror bought just to be shattered for an art project
Than it is to relate to
Someone with our own flesh and blood
Throwing out tenacious truths into the empty exposed air
Hoping someone out there actually could care