A room of one’s own but the windows are shut too tight,
lest the passerby smells the fright,
of tremors and shivers that plague me at night.
I open them a little, to look outside,
but the world is fucked from the inside.
The boundaries of the personal are obscure,
A pariah inside out.
They throw stones at my window, tell me to breathe in my own air of madness.
Shut their windows, so the air of sadness doesn’t contaminate their well-kept pride.
Mine is broken.
Broken by the need to shout out that window,
not for help but to question,
why the rush to close their doors when I am trying to open mine.
Just to breathe a different air.
The air inside is stifling me,
words are incoherent, all to trifle.
This garbled speech is a head not in my control.
But I’d still like to breathe, a hell lot more.
These employers insist on experience, the same fucking drill.
Of savoir faire, of skill.
Does my trauma count as one?
A stimulating history of abuse and pills?
Sedated humans who can’t take that damned instruction.
Sit inside my head,
let’s see if the emotions are too hard for your cushioned cerebrum.
I will ask you then, about those gaps in my resume you like to point out,
Because your money is wasted on an inexperienced trout.
Who hasn’t competed in the big waters with the sharks that devour,
the ones flapping around feebly,
trying not to feel less human in the face of all your “glory.”
Plastered on the walls and in your cock-y bearing,
that makes you regret hiring that unstable loony.
The power with which you tell her to leave her “baggage” at the shore,
before jumping in waters whose currents are too strong for her “weak” core.