Pusaq: the Outsider

How unfortunate am I, how unfortunate am I, again I bathe under the sun. I derive no pleasures from my womanly pain, grief felt deepest, the steel boot on my hand. I enter work about ten minutes before my shift starts and watch as I fail to outrun the speed of the day— I greet Patty, I greet everyone, always eager. Scene falls, enter: the office. I greet Patty (again), she asks me how I’ve been. I fail to speak the truth while her face contorts into the sour purse of rot, the burst melon of her lips wrinkling to a fine dust. She irritatingly enough does not approve of my insincerity. She sends me to file cabinets. 

The never=ending sun continues boiling the pavement. It chews me up, rarely swallows; I think people would be sad, for a time, similar to being sad when April showers come. But the aftermath of the rain makes the sadness worth it. All the beauty makes that pain worth it. My passing would make others happier in the long run.

I do not think that I’d be missed, do not think I would be mourned. 

I am forever misunderstood, humiliated, and betrayed. Night where the unfortunate dream no longer blinks, you are, sadly, still breathing.

The outsider . No one makes me feel crazier than other women. No one spits on my fallen trough more than men. Constantly rejected by those who object me, those who ogle, those who take my body as images through their minds.