Posted in Poetry

Raw and Mismanaged

I’m not
sure
how to open up;
no one sees my emotions.

They haven’t figured out
how raw and mismanaged

my life is—not even my dad.

He would handle it
worse
than I do.

Tell me a joke about how
Russia is great,

how my depression all delineates down to “colonialism.”

You think I’m
joking but the day
my mother

died,

all he could do was send
me a picture

of his breakfast

and ask me if he could
keep his handicap parking pass.

-11.28.17

Author:

Trying to find the right words.

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