it would make a scene, I suspect,
if I caused among those who are surrounding me
the kind of pain I carry
(not to brag, she said with false humility, but there’s a fair bit trapped inside)
(and honestly, they own much of it).
the blood spatter, however, would make extra work for our waitress,
and service workers are overworked, underpaid, borderline-slave labour.
they don’t need me bringing more pain
(the temptation to throw a punch at tormenting friends is strong, notwithstanding).
who knew midlife would feel so violent?
who knew I could hate those I love?
(“hate” is a strong word: let’s use “frustrated rage” instead).
it surprises them, I suspect,
when I hold them accountable:
personal responsibility is a rare thing
it’s easier to find a unicorn.
(my subcutaneous hostility bubbles out and my people are puzzled:
I sympathize: natural consequences are a shock to the system)
it hurts me; it’s hard, travelling alone.
(swallow it down: there are no boundaries in this tribe.)
I don’t want this world that I’ve made, but change is difficult:
our species is too fond of the status quo
(the genetic apathy doesn’t serve us well.)