Me

I write about my life.
I write about sadness and sex,
something I've had too much experience with,
I’ll confess,
but can I borrow someone else?
Someone with all her teeth
and all her health?
Another stupid bitch
who doesn't have all this stupid shit to deal with:
a lonely spinster tenant
with no one to bug her or take a meal with?
A pretty barista with coffee and fucks on her breath?
Or what about a middle-aged singer with next to nothing left?

From my toes and the wrinkles on my feet
to the place my legs and hipbones meet
I feel the distance aching in my flesh.
I've tried my best to lose it,
but my thighs are thick.
And I use the extra space
that surrounds my misplaced tiny waist
to store my melancholy munchies,
my extra snacks, my superfluous thoughts,
in between some pretty depressing meals.

And anyone who thinks genius is eloquent
should know it's more like ripping off a bandaid.
It hurts like hell and under it
you can see the damage you've made;
those are smarts.
Each idea pricks out my tiny hairs
until I get to my core
and keep digging a little more
till it's just the bubbling center of the earth
and in between my legs and up through my chest
is this burning sensation--
some intellectually transmitted disease.

Try calling me on it.
but lemme tell you, I'll be out
and you can read my stuff
but you won't know what it's about
and you can stick me in a cage and say
dance, bitch, dance
and I'll do it
but only because I love to move
and do it whenever I get the chance.
I'll slip through your bars;
catch me if you can.
I may have no upper arm strength
or some penis to exaggerate
but I'm quicker than a man.
So just try:
Catch me! Catch me if you can!

And I'll scream, fight the man;
Fuck the system!
cuz you know, that's how I do.
And I'll say you were never good for me
cuz you know I always loved you,
but for once, this poem isn't about you;
it's about me.
And I may be gimp-twisting down a road to
insanity
but at least, for now, I'm free.
and alone I’m high
and together we’re low.
And when I'm with you the distance down my road
is a little less to go,
and my long sleepless nights
are the only way I know to slow.

And the moisture comes out of my mouth,
as my pillow is over my face
and my cryptic little thoughts could have drifted to your ear
but there's just not enough space
for my words to form
and even I can't hear.
So stick me on the short bus, or put me in a ward
cuz I talk to myself
when I get bored.
Gimme something to live for
or just gimme something to think for.
Gimme a place I could actually call home.
Gimme some time.
Gimme some space
and maybe, just maybe,
I'll tell you the things I think when I'm alone.