in the dead of morning,
i hear car doors slam down the road.
i do not know who drives them,
or why they're so angry,
or why i make it my business at all.
all i know is that,
when i am braver,
finally with a license of my own,
i hope nothing else makes me so angry.
i think of you often, miss sonic the hedgehog.
i think of the love you deserved,
the company you kept,
the body that chained you,
and the world that made you hide.
i think of the salvation that came not for you,
the signal you never sent,
the exit you never found,
and the way none of that mattered
to the people
who drank in the hurt they gave you.
i think of how, in another world,
i became you.
when i was a child, my mother
shared an office with a woman
who spoke in tongues under her breath
while sermons blared unyielding from her desk.
though neither my mother nor i
thought much of it, i now regard it
as a portrait of the south
more vivid than nature.
today i learned that the person
whose life story i still recite with ease,
whom i never met but knew so well,
was a monster in disguise
who devoured kids like me.
what would that kid say
if she knew what would become of him?
would the stars in her eyes burn out?
would she hide in her youth,
so unaware that she would soon
forget how to?
Before the stage you built, I cry your name.
"How could you have done this to them? To all of us?"
I feel the walls sweat with your presence, your charisma,
I am in awe of you.
I call you a monster, but I'm lying.
I know the truth — that you're a person,
and that your vices, your crimes,
are all human.
But I don't feel sympathy. Not for you.
How do I mourn a severed tie that never tied at all?
How do I mourn the "you" I built and burned?
How could you?
How did you.
when i bit your nails red,
when i drew your blood to cleanse myself,
and when i worked your hands to bone,
you didn't reject me. you didn't leave.
you love the me that hates you,
the me that couldn't even bear the sight of you,
the me that wishes i
could open you like a ripe peach
and crawl out of you
and leave you to rot.
So, your lost love, too, has traded its identity for the acceptance of the masses.
How cut-and-dry must the human experience be, so that the life of a company can mirror the life of a person?
It’s a human desire, to look beyond the white and cold of a corporate monolith to see life, breath, or even identity.
The truth is simple — that any business who’d wish for the undying loyalty, the money of children had already cast off its dreams long ago.
As for your lost love, you hold it close to yourself when you know that it never could have loved you in turn.
But because you were a child, oh, because you were a child, and because the time you had to your small self was so untainted by this monolith that, you muse now,
was always watching from the bushes, the “inner child” you embraced is gone as well.
She is wandering your bedroom, playing with your toys, forever just a step from disillusionment.
You look away from “it”, stationed in the brush behind your window, only to hope that by doing so, you will save "her."