A Word to the Wise

I've gotten pretty good at cutting people out of my life who have hurt me: my count is up to four to date.  What does this say about me?  If someone really knew me, I think they would say that it means that I have been too open, too trusting, too naive with people that I don't know from Adam.  In the past, I have welcomed unknown people with open arms and allowed them to get to know me deep down before I really knew if they were trustworthy. I have served up my heart on a platter for them to do with what they choose, friends and romantic interests alike. Four of these people turned around and either handed it right back to me, or proceeded to stomp on it and hurt me deeply.

Going forward, I know now that I should be less naive about the ways of the world.  I think that it's good to take risks, but it's also healthy to reevaluate those risks and take a step back.  It's worthwhile to be a little cautious in making new friendships and forging new relationships, because what do you really know about these people, anyway?  Going forward, it is important to remember that people can talk a big game, but I should let their actions speak for who they truly are.  I want to remember to go with what my gut feelings tell me, because they are more often right than not. I shouldn't let fear of getting hurt again rule my interactions with the world, but I also should not throw caution to the wind.

High School Poetry: Part Trois

Dance of the Memory Kittens

her pink nose twitches.

the scent of your sweet cologne

permeates her nostrils.

the minuscule rosebud points to heaven

sniffing around in the dark for you.

fluffy white puff balls

bat the black yarn back and forth

pounding the inside of my skull,

a taunting metronome

pulsing your name:

a bitter waltz.

one, two, three

one, two, three

Dance of the memory

kittens

cloaked in the black silky strands

that my fingers once caressed.

the pads of their feet,

soft,

freckled,

your skin.

c'est tout.

I applaud

but the kittens will give no encore,

their mouths pursed in the same way

your tender lips once were when your face

fa d  e   d     a     w      a       y

into the dark recesses of my mind.

my fingers reach out

slowly, gently, so as not to alarm,

not to disturb their steady purring,

the droning stream of prickly memories.

Just one touch will surely

smooth their coarse manes.

But those fickle felines

with their fickle hearts

elude my grasp which proves too harsh.

High School Poetry: Part Deux

You Are Now Entering the Supermarket Zone


It is freezing in here!
It's
summer and I'm wearing two
sweatshirts
inside this ice box that is
literally hell
frozen over.

I'm nowhere near the frozen food section.

The incessant ding of this
cash register that
never fails to
shut down
in the middle of a
HUGE purchase
is driving me
up the Metfood wall.

It's 3:00. I close at nine.

Today, a blue haired lady
turned the same shade while
yelling at me for ringing up
cucumbers instead of zucchini.
I'd tell ya where you can put your
green vegetable, lady, if only I could
while keeping this friendly smile
plastered on my face.
See?  Have a nice day!

$5.50 an hour for this? Might as well get nothing.

I'm squinting.
But no sunlight can penetrate this cave
filled to the brim with packaged,
processed, why-don't-they-just-chew-it-for-you-too
quotation-mark-food-quotation-mark.
Oh, wait.
It's just the fluorescent lighting
reflecting off the shiny surface
of my boss's bald head.
The same boss who waves me
out into the pouring rain
to retrieve shopping carts
at 8:00 on Sunday night.

No one is going to need one.

There's a line
out the door
to jump into my spot.
Why would anyone subject
herself to this?
I didn't even get paid
for my training.
You know what,
that's it.
I'm throwing in the towel,
hanging up my apron,
grease stains and all
for the very last time.
Screw you, baldy!
I'm going to work at
Pizza Heaven.

High School Poetry: Part Une

Whateverosis


Unzip the zipper of your sternum
and step outside.
Examine your soul,
black with the smoke
and cheap beer you feed it;
An emaciated child
from Ethiopia
starving
for your repentance
for absolution
for His big O.K.

His ribs stick out
stretching the skin
over his gaunt torso,
the chaste bones itching to
perforate their leathery package
of sin wrap and false foil.
The outline of his teeth indent
his sunken cheeks;
He's a shadow of who he used to be,
a mere sketch
of who he was to become.

Now unbutton the skull.
Grab hold of your potential,
or what's left of that
bruised, rotten
apple
once a shiny crimson,
alive.
Teachers, friends, even I
glanced up at the healthy
tree of that mind,
saw its shiny promise,
wanted to climb up, snatch it
taste it, greedy for a purpose
pure and uncorrupted.

What has caused
this plague of your body,
diseased from the inside,
seeping corrupted pus
through your orifices
to form invisible boils
on your skin?
What has caused this
acute maturation of
apathy?

This cancer
infects more young people than HIV,
causes dazed, half-opened eyes,
slouching,
a shuffling, sauntering step
and a lethargic demeanor
which saturates the air;
You're a human garbage dump
and I can smell you from here.