• May 15, 2021, 10:24 p.m.
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  • Public

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.


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