bad transmission

bombarded from all sides

inside, outside, on the line

I stuck my head in there

and it gets sliced through like a lemon peel

the knife only grazes me, not sharp enough

to cut off the entire head as I’m not Elizabethan Queen

now I’m writhing in spasms

like some Black Mamba that constantly

dares to spit malicious venom

who’s going to be under attack?

it’s always me

as if the immune system was attacking its own body

without a shield to protect me from the worst outcome

‘help me! help me!’ I shout

leaving only small sharp shards of pity

when no one wants to be

next to me

as if everyone wanted to put me in a cage

and observe

always inappropriate reaction

to the scrutinised lack of mercy

there is no right response to this

only regret

that they

don’t know much

even with me around

serving them everything on a plate

too bad

they already have one full