She talks about envy
Keeps returning to green
A jealous-like dream that’s obscene
To just mention between them
It doesn’t ring true, she can’t see it
Can you? But it must be writ large
On her face or why would they
Make such a fuss about
Something she’s blind to?
It must, must be true.
So a new diagnosis
Of borderline hits,
The caché of the other
Wanes further in drifts
Is she really so flawed
That her person itself
Is treading the line
‘tween neurosis psychosis:
Themselves are grim states
But both put together?
As vile as can be,
A psychiatrist’s nightmare
Pitting self against self
Whilst gazing at navels;
Why me, oh poor me
No-one gets me, just me
Despite drivelling privilege
I still cannot see
What the point of me
Is. An eternal confusion
Of leaky protrusion
And tears and self-pity
When there in the city
Are people left burning in
Towers clad gritty
With poverty, shame and real life reality.
How dare she feel thus
When she has a nice home
And a husband that’s loyal
And fridge full of food
And a daughter that loves her
(and in same breath hates her)
She’s had every chance
For a life of success.
But the girl stuck inside her
Is holding a dress
That’s misshapen and lumpy
And ugly and shameful
And bad and a sinner
Not quite good enough
To call herself winner.
She’s tired
And expired to be wired
In this way
If a pill could now save her
She’d take it, she would
Just to spirit away
Her useless extrusions
That stick out around her
And poke into eyeballs
Of people that see her
For what she quite is:
A sad little girl
With an envious bent
To destroying herself
In an endless lament
Perhaps one day she will
Find a good thing inside
To live for and laugh for
And swallow her pride.
Maybe one day
She will override her insides
And push out the tide
That wants to just die.
Maybe one day she’ll want
To just live.
© xmab 2017