Your identity politics isn’t poetry –
he yelled
across the room in a
wave of angst so great
it cut through thin air itself.
Your hair doesn’t even look good red –
he added
in what could be deemed
a fair analysis of
externalising mental illness.
Your music is repetitive
and your clothes too corporate –
He added, again,
almost in the same breath.
Dude, I said –
What’s. With. The. Negging.
The unfiltered word dumps,
the unwanted vitriol,
the smattering of negativity
across my space and into my equilibrium.
What’s with the out of context statements
the out of the gate remarks,
the out of this world analogies.
And why
do I
care
so much
When I have fulfilling hobbies
like writing and politics.
Why do I care when words
light up my angst
like fireballs through a night sky.
Why do I care so much
when I know my politics are here
for the constant learnings,
that the phrase cultural humility
is not yet overused
to define the way of being
I’m edging towards.
Well, I think, at least the burning
keeps me present:
And it’s not like it feels any better
To be
instead
ignored and
forgotten.
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