Escape
I am not sorry.
Your hurt feelings are inconsequential
to what I am going to say.
I’m not sorry.
It is never a good time,
to have a good time.
What are good times, anyways?
Is it like the times burned into your memory
of laugher so effortless
it was synonymous to breathing?
Or, is it like the times where you sacrificed
your happiness
to “keep the peace?”
Oh what “peace” it was!
Warmed from the fire
lit by the manipulation
games you play.
Oh come on baby,
pour gasoline over our social circle
to keep the optics on brand!
See the rotten fruit
bore from your lies.
Suck on the fermented juice
until you’re drunk.
That spinning is what you asked for,
isn’t it?
How you like to keep your audience captivated,
is it not?
Swooning over your bold and brave vanity
that enables you to step all over
whom ever gets in your way
of being the smartest person in the room.
Struggling to make your way
through some of the richest neighborhoods
and best schools our old stomping grounds had to offer.
It’s a real coming of age tale-
brand name rags, to frivolous egocentric riches!
How you continue to spin
minor inconveniences into Greek Theater,
to tug on heart strings and dampen eyelids.
You care not of actual merit or good morals,
but only of the image and perception of such.
As long as you can keep them guessing
while feeling inferior and incompetent,
their attention and lust is yours.
It is not the glass ceiling you cling to,
as you so frequently preach,
it is the floor.
Kicking anyone you can get
your tiny hands on
into the basement.
To sell them solutions
to get back up the stairs.
“Call me Ponzi,” the opening to your memoirs
Preying on those you know are smart,
but view as weak and lacking self esteem.
Taking them under your decaying wings
like a vulture circling itself,
salivating like Pavlov’s Dog.
Dripping wet at the fantasies
of how they will rush to your aid!
The perfect time
for the dark and serious persona
to take the spot light.
The alleged opiate fueled poser
that has always been,
and always will be, alone.
Never accepting help but always reminding,
that whatever the help would have been,
would never-be-enough.
So edgy you could slice through
any good meaning caretaker.
Dumb enough not to hear
the bullshit in your siren song.
How much do you care for these people
when the eyes of your network are not watching?
What tune is sung when the good deed done
to sew rough patches over your guilt,
isn’t posted and commented upon on Instagram?
With a chemtrail of hashtags
for all your precious causes.
As long as the spotlight is on.
#BlackLivesMatter to you
as long as the protest is big enough
to look like an activist.
I am not sorry.
Your hurt feelings are inconsequential
to the validity of what has been said.
I’m not sorry
for cutting off your narcissistic supply.
