Every day the news screams
"***** VICTIM,
AGE
NAME:    
PLACE_"
Underneath
The description of what happened.

Some people take note,
Others read it out of pity
sometimes concern
very few take action

I am nothing more then a jellyfish
Reading the news every day.
Clicking my tongue in pity.

Pity?
We don't need pity.
We need awareness.
Action.
Movement.

I won't try to poison your ears
Telling you lies
As if I'm a victim of assault
or harassment
I won't tell try to earn sympathy
telling you I know someone
who experienced that
someone close to me
I don't

But I hate that feeling,
walking down the streets
worried about every single person behind me
Terrified they might be a potential attacker.
I hate worrying, about my friends
Who are just outside for a few minutes
And yet have to be careful?

This is
Blasphemy.
Why must we be careful?
Is it due to our genitals?
Is that the ONLY REASON?
It angers me

"You know better!"
I would rage silently at the news
It has no effect,
never will
never does
If I just keep my thoughts

As thoughts.

Total irrational fear, I’m
Haunted by noises and
Interred by the
Rumble belly, *** tightening,
Twitchy eyed, false alarms that
Evolve into conspiracy theories,
Even though I love every single
Nonsensical asinine fear factor…ish

Falling is now a favourite.
Eleven other aversions form a line and
An extra number comes to mind (and with it comes ‘Whoa’)
Reset the clock to zero!
Stride on, wipe your feet, step off.

Suspicions and mistrust
run high

so we hold ourselves tight
dread locked and buy
deadlocks for the doors
and deadlocks for the deadlocks
in case anyone tries to steal those too

then circle the whole thing with a moat
and from inside we burn the bridges.

We watch our backs
our fronts, our wallets
our mothers, but
oh mother, especially
our wallets
because that is how we speak
now.

We speak
not with words but with money
and self expression is a valuable thing
and it’s a crime to keep quiet.

At two in the morning
the police come to knock on your door
to chide you and remind you
that a number value is
very relatable.

You want to be related to,
don’t you?

They go on to tell you just how valuable
it is and was (before inflation)
because
we’ve been tracking it
with google statistics.

You’ll find all the details
in the police report.

I spot the small things
The giraffe balloon
Floating by the window
of my bedroom
Where I brood on the day

I spot the small things
The souped up ride
Tearing past the street
The go faster stripes
breaking my concentration

I spot the small things
The washer of hotels
cleaning the distant windows
along the parallels
As I struggle to work

I spot the small things
The dead pixel on screen
Making the image
slightly unseen
On your update feed

I spot the small things
The name on your message
With a heart on the end
That day was a lesson
Not to blindly trust

I spot the small things
The couple in the corner
Kissing away secretly
I slowly mourn her
You're truly not mine

I spot the small things
The robin on the wall
Serving to remind
To be above it all
and be more than I am

“The tree has fruit,”
Hands sticky,
Face smeared,
My stomach turning
“The fruit is rotten,”
Laughing, another in your hand
The first bite unearths no worm, no insect
Only the soft, wet peach-flesh
You’d expect from one of us.
“Isn’t it sour?
Isn’t it bitter?
Does the aftertaste not resemble
Pesticidal poison?”
Quiet now,
Only the sound of leaves shaking,
The pull of branch and the wobbly return,
The fruit’s fuzz against my fingers,
My lips.
I do not take a bite.

Maybe we can go on together with suspicious minds
But only because feigning trust is considered fine
So we say ok and tell each other to have fun
When we assume the worst and then say none
We boil up and grow apart
With each slightly resentful remark
My period pains make you say
I'm ******* around every other day
You don't talk to me anymore
So I assume your new friend is your *****
We change plans on hanging out together
Instead of rekindling this love we've shared forever
So as much as we think **** is going on behind
I know our accusations aren't necessary
We can't go on with suspicious minds.

This secret, best kept away
from prying hands that drop
eyes on eaves and awnings.

They stay within
the perimeter of spies and agents
doubling as bartender ears,

drink up and pour
the punch that hits you where
you bleed invisible. The spleen

lacerating split, a penetrating
ooze, cleaves back and forth with you.
Drain out and glaze over. Be very,

very still.