She is not folded in the crooks
of crooked grins
or enveloped in the yuks
that follow poorly executed jokes.
She pays no mind
as she singes the edges
of those brave enough
to approach her.
She spits on empathy
and disregards
the “what ifs” or “why nots.”
Rarely spoken aloud,
she is deafening
when confined to quiet corners,
and will lurk there,
unmentioned and unforgotten.
When permitted to surface,
she looks nothing like you’d expect—
badly disguised and undeniably
ugly,
with unforgiving features
that have been bent and twisted—
coated with
a sticky sugary sheen.
She demands to be considered,
as she slides, jagged and bitter,
off of the tongue
and into the light.
She’s always there,
regardless of any acknowledgement—
closer than we desired,
bigger than we imagined,
wiser than we hoped.
She, the *****
that we are forced
to shake hands with.
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2016