My mother always told me,
if you cry for real and raise your hands,
help will come
By now I’m well-versed in real tears,
so this morning I thought I’d ask
for some mercy.
When did I become this person,
Did I press the wrong button,
Worse instead of Better?
Or is it just my face,
that makes him flinch and turn away,
Show me a sign,
If this is written, stop screwing
with the plot and give me my happy ending.
If it is not, make it stop.
I want a refund,
for my sanity.
Pretty soon, I stopped asking,
I stopped pleading.
I was silent, waiting for a blaze
to dry my wet palms.
I was listening for a beep,
‘All Systems Go’, or ‘Time to Self-Destruct.’
Then my hands felt sore, my cheeks salty,
and my eye-lids like ripe shitake mushrooms.
I closed my eyes, and saw benches near buildings,
heads camouflaged behind leaves,
proof-reading your words,
a rustle every now and then at a shake or a nod.
I’ve opened them now, my eyes
which now see nothing but your back,
moving further and further away,
I’ll close them again soon, my droopy mushroom-eyes.
My ears too will stop picking up high-pitched chirps,
from outside my window,
which my hands have now just shut.
Poor hands, so sore,
from cradling the weight of my head,
and all your words stuffed inside of it.
Rest now, my limbs.
Mercy will come.
Help will come.
Mother said so.