Have you seen my tongue or Philadelphia or what I did under your nose?
Know-it-all, you were never too young, you were always better somehow but
I swear your eyes glow red when you’re mad and
the books you read are crap and
the games you play are crap and
you broke my heart too many times and
you were supposed to be my first love but
my first taste of you was sickening and
you never tried to change that and
you thought I would forgive you like
I was the breeze and I had to come around again.
But I was raised on the equator where I never saw a breeze
so I’ll become humidity and you can drown in me.
And I wonder if you think I’m the rebel
and if, when you prostrate, you pray for me
or if, when you step on ants, you think of me
saying “I don’t have the right to kill an ant,”
like I was a middle-school Ghandi.
You know in first grade I bragged about you because you were elusive and
You could touch the ceiling and
My friends were amazed but
I knew you could put it down on top of me.
Remember when you tried to teach me a lesson once?
It didn’t hurt but my ego did
when you bought me a present to make up for it.
I hid your present in my room.
It was a yellow elephant with pink ears and
I only look back at it as unnatural.
Now all my friends are people who don’t care and
I am temperamental and fat like you.
My face is the same and my hands are the same.
And I bet you still sit playing
My sister has arachnophobia.
My brother won’t touch a PC.
You made us sticky and see-through like tape.
And I used to think being enlightened would mean that I wouldn’t get hurt
but it just means that your actions are most hurtful to me.