Bills & Books & Birthdays

The bill arrived out of the blue

on my birthday, a day of dread.

I paid it, yet I'm still in the red.

No birthday cake,

no one would come anyway.

They love their judgments, their views of me

more than the authentic me.

They're skilled at

being deliberately evasive, using misleading words.

I never know

what to think.

I have some theories that might fit, but

I'm not sure I'd be able to explain them

and anyway, they'd always deny it.

I'm okay with that; I know where I stand.

Even without a degree in psychology,

I can tell right from wrong.

I've been breathing their air since my teens.

Books helped in enlarging things.

Communicating coercive correlations.

It was all there already; I invented nothing.

Even now, after all these years, some folks act

like they're still stuck

in the 50s.

Sweeping all the unpleasant stuff under the rug,

as if to say, “It's not proper; it's not important.”

Then, the same people end up

alone,

sobbing their hearts out,

or lost

in their addictions, hidden from view.

Because when they're out and about,

no one knows what they do behind closed doors.

The wrongs they've committed, escaping any judgment,

living life without the right punishment

adequate

to their guilt,

and everyone seems

to go along with it.

It shouldn't be like this.

They force their way onto us.

Dictating how we should live,

while ultimately clueless themselves.

They abuse even the smallest bonds.

The fragile ones

that can't withstand this.

They just deal with things

as they can.

They tell

us, “This is the only path,”

but it's not, though we're resigned.

It takes strength to defy the norm.

People who weren't enemies,

now are.

It started with their hatred.

Secretly, of course,

but I know.

Does it matter anymore?