Unoriginally Yours, Monster

What’s left of my decay 

spills from closet doors.

And you’re fine.

Happy.

Jubilant, even. 

Instead of invading the family home,

the monster offed herself quietly.

Politely, even. 

I like to watch movies that remind me 

of the progressions inside 90’s kids’ photo albums.  

While you sternly swish around all the film’s flavor 

inside your mouth. 

I lie flat on the carpet because I’m too dirty for the bed.

My gaze actively focused on the undiscerning future 

until it becomes a blurry bad Monet. 

Your favorite. 

Once more, you cartoon steam roll me into the ground 

I give the old college try peeling myself off…

but the vibrations from this teenage soundtrack 

keep me firmly planted. 

I ignore the flashing, forever blinking billboard sized messages

of “I love you, but…”

from my window. 

I cry without making any sound. 

I want to scream at all those who so easily forgot 

about me.

And I want to scream loudest 

at you, who still remains. 

Proactively.

It doesn’t matter what’s sugar iced on a cake 

or in a hand written poem enclosed in an 

“I’m trying too hard to be liked” envelope. 

The monster fetish skipped along happily 

into another variant; self deprecating grease stain.

What once appeared beneficial 

is now a handicap without the shiny plaque 

proclaiming first dibs. 

It’s the least we could do. 

Fuck all of you for never really getting it.