By Seth Trochtenberg
You have taken interest,
a voyeuristic study,
the subject of others’ lives and loves,
and have been roused in emptiness,
a hero’s tale and such the expert,
the same as leeches once were to the dying.
What is another word but a
syllable or two, plus an idea and meaning,
and you would chant a series and
call it sensible, even sensitive,
cherish the thoughts, comradery?
I offer you rosebuds and thorns,
and guide your ornate hands to vicious stems—
are you surprised? Of course not,
we know who I am after all,
who we’ve decided I would be.
You think you know better, and see
clearer than the rest, but we both realize
how blinding my light can shine,
the pain it can bring. Danger, danger.
O to be so dastardly.
I can pretend with the best,
and have my whole life, do you think
you know the truth now?
When does a liar choose to become honest,
and when do you choose to believe the change?
Born of it, I am the filth you despise, and
you fear how beautiful the grime
has weathered me. I would too.
I’d offer garbage, crushing garbage from all
ends, and call it my home, a house, so you
think you know where I live?
You’d break at the front door, so move along