Posted by:
Babaganoush
(
)
Date: July 29, 2012 12:07AM
There is no place for me in your world.
I am a stye, an itch, an irritant,
I should go away but I don't.
You only complain at me or talk about things
other than the things that matter most;
only what can fit, the good mixer with
what you know, having to do with money, work, kids.
So ordinary, so true, but the tiniest
part of me and you.
You will not be moved. Pity has no home in you.
Like the scorpion that only moves to sting,
Your heart seeks only weakness, the flaw, the over-powered victim.
"Don't talk to me about such," you say.
Don't shout. I heard you in your distress, your pain and fear.
"Who cares about such 'Studies?'"
I care. They are vital, for a time, clarifying my pain and fear.
"You suffer?" (What ocean tilted that question into your mind?)
Do you want to know why?
"No."
Care is easy if it's just groceries and bill paying;
not so much when someone wants a piece of you.
Are you truly charitable? "Charity begins at home."
That makes me laugh these days.
Where is our love? We are bound and yet I matter less and less to you because I look and see things: The wound beneath the gauzy dressing; someone deposited vomit in you that you cuddle and mistake for a grand meal. What do you know of eating that satisfies, that does not make you sick without your knowing?
My coffee mugs disturb you?
Cigarettes, porn, and minor league profanity make me, in your eyes, less than joyful.
My god what you know of ecstasy could be kept on a half sheet of paper, written large because not all the space would be needed.
What you don't know about me may scare you because you cannot ask. You see no pain but your own.
The scorpion tears apart its prey, pincers so sure. The mantis eats her lover's head and still his body goes on. He might write to her. He might not. He's beyond caring. And so is she.