My mother couldn’t find the words
for those strange feelings I had.
She wondered why I’d cried as a little girl
at the sight of the street beggar
covered in ghastly wounds.
My best friend was confused.
His heart was broken,
yet I was the one who’d cried.
I’d wished she’d stop hurting him,
toying with his heart, messing up his mind,
basically playing him around.
He didn’t want to upset me,
but I couldn’t be calmed down.
People mistake me a lot
for my sheer interest
in horror films and crime stories.
No, I’m not trying to be tough,
nor into sick, gory fantasies.
Today I am still struggling
just to comprehend
my misplaced rage and frustration.
They’ve always been right.
There’s only so much that anyone can do.
Sometimes I just disconnect,
retreating to my safe solitude
only to avoid draining my energy
from all the injustice and ugliness of the world.