Evil

Written in my phone notes in an outhouse in rural Canada, this poem has transformed quite a bit since then. And has, perhaps, become more relevent.

I am born of judgment, of hurt.

I feed on “couldn’t”

Slurp up “would have”

And for dessert

I loosen my belt

And swallow a handful of “should”

I’m striving to be a birthright

But no one sees me

In fresh-faced babes

Try as I might

I can’t be bestowed

I fester and stew in distress

I am an escape artist and

Master of disguise

I hide behind

Your jealousy,

Unacknowledged fear

Tucked between micro-aggressions

Ultimately I will rise up

I’ve drained the regret

Stored in your gut

Deep and untouched

One final disguise

I jumble your sweet, saddened words

Your soul rushes up and past me

I cling to your tongue

A southern wind

A song unsung

“Help Me” it’s screaming

“I Hate This Flavor Lingering”

“Listen To Me Please

Hold Me Wordlessly

Bathe Me of This Rot”

But all that drips

from your lips

as I slide

past your teeth

is the bitter slime of Evil.