What if
What if…
I don’t want to fight anymore?
What would happen
if i threw that down like a real option with a slammed table for dramatic effect?
If i just let my fists fall open with blood lined nail impressions
like an act of submission and sacrificial spilling, could those ugly palms still pray
for a break so far past the date of admittance?
If i just jumped up and down
with a prepared sob and limp neck
like a toddler on his way to bed, could i get some type of extention or special treatment?
Could that work at my age if i looked slightly disheveled
and the tears were warm,
if i was sniffling and shouting with breaks in my voice, startling in pitch and polluting with noise
I DON’T WANNN NNNNA FEEL ANYMORE!!!
JUST STOPPPPPPPP IT!..Wahhhhhhhhh!!!
What if..
Why not?
My eyes are burning
and my chest feels heavier than the weight I am forced to carry in a D cup.
What if i just didn’t wake up?
What if i just lay here until my stomach grows louder than the circles that talk in my head?
Would I then know what was real
from what was not?
If I just refused to move and tested my body’s will to survive, who would win?
Would it be worth that one moment of clarity?
I have done worse things for obscurity, so, what if i did?
Oh, how swift I would trade that kind of hunger
if i could conquer just one hour of mine.
What if… I just
gave in?
Let that hellmouth swallow me
in whispers and replay?
If i checked in to some women’s clinic or
psycho ward,
waiting for liver spots and wads of frayed gray hair
leaving my head like i wish to God i could.
Between my fingers, compulsively combing
for the calm that comes from following through with the act
like an order, but it’s nothing like that.
It’s chaos with a pause for anal retention, so when people wonder
they kind of smirk and say “oh”
like it’s that simple, only it isn’t.
It’s stronger than i am
and i am… exhausted.
What if i can’t hold my own?
So??
What if I do give in?
Who’s going to care?
I have learned the hard way that I am recyclable
for $7.50 an hour, especially when they pay me 10
to do anybody’s job
with a little more experience and bigger arms.
So, what if i just stopped showing up for work?
What if I just locked myself up in my room,
writing about seclusion and unrequited love
under my mother’s roof and pensive frown?
Till it stops, till i die…
like Emily Dickenson lived.
Why not?
What if?
