Regretfully Us

We are the impatient people. Throttling forward
with no clear road ahead, pushing aside the debris
or trampling it over,
soiling our sacred Nikes.
Technology drives us; our
conversation, our entertainment, our
love life. We walk with heads bent
thumb scrolling through pictures
of our bestie’s 21st.

She
so tattered and disheveled
twisted over a porcelain pit spewing slime from her lips.
Instead of sliding our hands between her neck and stringy mop,
we’re behind our phone snapping “memories.” A night
she’d no sooner wipe from her thoughts
displayed on Facebook, a constant reminder of the regrets
surfacing behind her eyes. The vicious cycle begins
and she rips into our regrets, the broken friendships
with those whose bodies whispered acceptance but hearts
shriek betrayal.

Or us
sitting on the doorstep as the sexist mob
joke about sex. Our naïve idle hands
wringing the air between our fingers. They encroach
on our steps shooing us into “our place”
to fetch them a beer, maybe produce
a sandwich while we’re there.

“Our place”
Grinding at our veins until they snap
and we seek asylum with our naïve comrades,
so trapped in their Disney ideology.
We can hear the desperate whistle
of “Someday my Prince will Come” bounce
through their hollow ears. Eyes stained

by their need for passion and their pleas for us
to find their one prince charming as we dream
they meet a sea hag of a man. Our lips shriek silent shrills
and we race to solitude, to our technology.
Rerolling the putrid porcelain green filth filled throne
through our fingers asking ourselves
when will life finally begin.

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