another poem to the Ice Queen,
because apparently two wasn't enough
i know i said i can't write when i'm sick
but i'm angry enough to take down a building
well, that's not true.
i'm more hurt than anything.
because apparently we can't even have
a civilized conversation without you
so plainly reminding me that you,
you cold-hearted bastard,
prefer the Make-Up Criminal to me,
the sad little fuck-up who
hides everything and was once a clingy little shit
but who now can't stand physical contact.
you are unhealthy.
that self-destructive tendency I engage in
even though I know it's a bad idea.
I used to love you.
but it's really fucking hard to love someone
who appears (and probably does) hate me.
you act like all you'd ever like to do
is just squeeze the pulsating heart
out of my writing but this is the one thing
that I will not, cannot, let you destroy.
no, this is the one thing i'm keeping.
when i was little i would show you
paintings i had done, drawings,
tests i got good marks on,
games i did well.
all you ever did was point out the flaws,
not pay attention,
and make me feel like
the thing that i was proud about
was the least important thing in the world.
you made my childhood worse.
but now there's just a blank page
and unbridled anger
and i have a cold -
i don't want to deal with this shit right now.
you fucking Ice Queen,
can just escort your ass
right back where i can never see it.
when you have kids,
i'll be working.
when you get married,
i'll be on vacation.
i am so angry
that i am willing to promise myself
years of vindictive business -
you never put me first.
so i'll find a way
to make the Ice Queen melt.
and we'll see how composed she looks then.