Darned old sobriety, nipping at my heels,
making me anxious, restless, looking
for something that is not there. He seals
my testimony between the lines, a fling,
I guess, but I want more. 360
milligrams of caffeine—will I sleep?
Better get used to it, sober and dead
to the world, don’t want to hear a peep
from me, living, ever, in agony—
change the pace, change my state of mind;
Minimal caffeine and a sleepy druggie
is not working, so I will go and find
another way, rejecting that which would
reject me, loving that which would love me.
I have done everything as I should:
Now I break the world’s rules: here’s my plea:
Wishing I had a sleeping pill that did
something—left me adrift, thinking special
thoughts, until, as is, like a peaceful kid,
dozing off, momentarily, in full—
all the way through the night. I woke up my
libido—don’t know why that’s problematic;
but, apparently, it is—of my mind’s eye,
trying, desperately, to make it stick,
let Him out, making my skin crawl, inside
out, can’t be still—no reason to move;
need to believe she—he—they—will decide,
wanting me; then I’ve nothing to prove,
and I can find release. Numb to the act,
having tried, by now, everything—
the problem, for me, is real, and exact,
but I don’t know what it is. A sting,
I suppose, the joke is on me, who cares?
But people do care, and they would think of
me if they knew me, so what? He dares
to ruin me—leaving me to self-love,
without encouragement, or validation.
I don’t need that from others when I can
give it to myself, but this redaction,
the love I’d feel, if I believed in this man,
escapes me entirely, subject to His wrath.
Angry, I suppose, without realizing it;
That my lot led me down a lonely path,
and there’s not much to be done. A whit,
then, for a gander, but it’s not enough.
Making me sweat, I’m working too hard,
this libido forces me, living rough,
so I must let go of my anger, discard
what I don’t need—ideas that I’m owed,
this chip on my shoulder reduces me,
and my imagination, the devil be towed,
stop being angry—it’s their pain I carry,
I make it mine, unnecessarily.
Think of it the other way around, to
date—they can’t have me, I’m too free,
too good, for them, just doing what I do,
what they’d do, if, like me, they had the chance.
We’re no different, then, so give me my way,
admit, if only in my mind, that you’ll dance
with me, for good, on a double-edged day.