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One of my favorite writers, Margaret Atwood, wrote a great piece that sticks with me to this day about the order of stories. Essentially, she asks you to choose your beginning and ending to the story, but says what happens in the middle is interesting part. In my own life, I want to close my eyes and simply bear the beginning, fast forward through the middle, and get to the ending. If every story has an ending, I want to know what aftertaste I’m going to be left with.

Dear Reader, read Margaret Atwood’s “Happy Endings” for you own enjoyment. http://users.ipfw.edu/ruflethe/endings.htm

Rhyming is a matter of preference. I rarely rhyme. It cost me the writing pin when I was in high school. There we were, poeticgrin and I, going head-to-head, writer against writer. Our teacher especially loved Bryanic poetry, which is lyrical and rhyming and has great flow. Bryantonian poems are artistic, very well crafted. I do not deny this, but why was there only but one pin? So I don’t rhyme…shouldn’t my dark comedy count for something?

 

After all:

No means yes

to hell you go

 

Wiggly-whats: my contribution to jibberish witticisms today. Usage example: You’re such a wiggly-what. Or cover your wiggly-whats.

I feel goo and the thought of you

in the back of my throat

I try to shallow

and choke

it down

 

to no avail

 

My stomach is sick and your bullshit was thick

as honey

or tar

and it sticks to me

 

still

 

**Note to reader: boredom is fodder for mental looping. Beware.**

It’s a loony lot I have made for myself. I’ve consumed a gazillion calories today and don’t plan on stopping anytime soon. I continue to dread this day. Nothing helps.

 

The menz. Oh, straight, single man, why must you be completely clueless? You seem harmless enough, but Lord help you, you were not born with the ability to read the signs, were you? I’m not saying it’s your fault. I want to help you, but I’m terribly tired, you see. I’m not sure I have the strength to hold your hand and walk you through my mine field. However, I wish you luck. I might not blow you to smithereens.

Maybe

it’s true

Maybe

it is all or nothing with me

my weary, obsessive mind can be calmed

if he’d just do it

reach out to me

soothe me

so I can retreat

return to not caring

either way

 

I wonder

am I just like you

hard and cold

conficted and self-destructive

in my own way

doubt

I wonder

is this your legacy to me

that I remind myself of you

sometimes

I remember so many things he said

Words with prickly edges that sometimes still stick in my skin and mind

Don’t be such a silly girl

Don’t take this the wrong way, you’re easy, you’re simple

I’m just being honest

I have no affection to give you how can you hate or blame me for that is it all or nothing with you have a good day

 

I remember so many things you said

Words profound but with a sister-friend shelter over me

Don’t torture yourself.

Did it ever occur to you that you ruined a song for him?

Let’s go get you some pizza and a coke, how about a cookie?

Girl please

 

 

I tell my friend

some people,

you just can’t help

they’re projecting on you

all the things they can and can’t see in themselves

that you’re like them

or different

or approximately equal to

or greater than

or less than

who

what

they are

I tell him

you can change your perspective

but you can’t change theirs

your “I” can become “we” or “she” or “he”

but you can’t help what they need

read

your words are theirs

and you are their creation

 

Slighted

again

Flaws brought to light

again

I am a living, breathing antithesis-stress theory

Give me

innate despair

Give me

environmental distress

Watch me

break apart

I rip in two

and rip into two more

Exponential misery

 

SOB with me

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