Ever wake up exhausted? No,
not tired--that happens to everyone
who didn't sleep well, enough,
or well enough. Happens all the time.
Exhaustion is different, holding
much, much more than a tired word
like tired can carry. Exhaustion is
a schlepper, humping myriad fragments
of parts that will never
be whole again. World-weariness
is the prerequisite: can't even think about
approaching exhaustion without at least
a shawl or indifferent scarf
of world-weariness with your anger shirt
and pants of betrayal. Persecution fits on feet
like socks full of pebbles, blame and shame
are earrings dangling down
far enough for some bejiggety bitch
to snatch one, ripping your earlobe in two,
Uh-uh-uh, don't you dare strike back--
scapegoats have to meet impossible standards,
present a stoic face,
respect the abuser
by suffering silently.
Take your licks, goddamnit,
wear the labels slapped on your back
like they belong to you--your abusers have
defined you to fit the narrative constructed.
No, you may not speak—
they’re here to persecute,
not prosecute (the prosecution
is busy resting)
Fair trial? No such fucking thing,
trials are errors failing to control
the carefully, cruelly constructed
narrative, and
Baby, you’re the star.
Watch out: I'm fucking exhausted.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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