poetry

Rue’s Affliction

First thing's first.
I am sorry that
                       I am unapologetic.
When I ask for your opinion,
I truly wish to know your deepest
desires and guilty obsessions.
I am constantly overwhelmed
by the foolish and the trivial
barraging on my thoughts—
threatening me, taunting me to give in.
When I call for you to "figure this out"
                       (right now, please)
I am insecure with my feelings
because I am aware that I shouldn't
feel this way anymore.
I am impatient, and brazenly so,
that I don't just play with fire;
I seem to intentionally harm myself
so that the flames are sure
to caress me with its singeing fingertips—
                       and then I still do it again anyways.
I become restless yet hopeful that
my ragged and torn intuition
will eventually guide me down the right path,
but I still feel anxious about
                       what happens next.
When I say these wretched things to you,
rambling and wreaking havoc,
I surely must be "asking for it"—
                       I know, I feel the same way too—
because I prod,
          pick,
          scratch
at all of the "little things" that really shouldn't matter.
It makes perfect sense that I start to
question myself and even
                       my own self worth
because I am still compelled to yell,
          argue,
          talk
until my voice is so hoarse and so deep
with residual emotion and with the
final exaltation of resolution.
Yet somehow, whenever I need/want
                       (both are one and the same to me now)
to speak, 
no one is willing to be sensitive.
Instead, they say they are sorry
but I know they are only being apologetic
                       for me.