Pass the Punch

every thirteen-year-old thinks they’re going to be famous someday.
she slams the door to all the shouting in the hallway, and dreams of hollywood
and afternoons floating under a bundle of balloons. one day he wakes up an old man,
the moment has gone. happy-hours and hangovers last just so long. because, living ten years
in the past or future can lose you right where you are. while the winners are chosen and the
others must be as content as stepping stones or as symbiotic smiling doormats.
if that’s the grand plan, then next time leave me out of it and pass the punch.
(let’s put this heretic to bed)
they are the ones whose attention is so hard to keep, because
crippling depression seems to dull one’s taste to dinner parties.
“what a glorious living room!”
“what a dangerous dinner set!”
custom built to separate.
all the while, she lies in a hospital with echoes of machines beeping.
“these sanitized sheets are sure nice, but it’s just not my own bed,”
“just leave me, i don’t want to be fixed,
i just want to be heard...maybe next time i’ll try deeper.”
my cutters, my burners, my lovers, my sinners, my strays; let’s march on the gates
and set fire to these edict estates. because we are stronger in numbers and no
longer ashamed. we are not quiet, and we are not going away.