Almost Seen (S. R. Gabriels)
Glad you’re gold, ’cuz
my silver sliver’s been stolen.
You say you gotta “live to love,” but
my survival’s survivin’ on my love to live.
Your chair, a throne. Mine?
Charred. Thorned. I sit alone.
That’s okay.
Hope you get the hype, you got it! Shhh,
don’t tell her. (My heels crack on her healed “hope.”)
Your daughter—her laughter, so sweet and
ever have I known her to never sweat the slaughter
of opinions. Of truth. That’s great. I—I’m happy. I am...
We’re the same? What? Were you somewhat
unaware of me under where you stomp your boots?
The rubber of your soles is equal
to my starved, ribbed soul—it
tastes like garbage. In your garage, where
your car is. No, I don’t need a get-well card.
Policy is fallacy—you police me when you fall, I see
crude cruelty. I cried, caring for your curiosity
of “what it must be like” to be
most like me. You couldn’t care.
See your lie?
Good.
Now lie in what you see.
