Not what I want.

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.)

6 thoughts on “Not what I want.

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