Celio Somerset | + Follow Poet |
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Jordan

Miss Jordan —
Are you satisfied?
Living in a world
Where hopes and efforts never collide,
Where all abide by someone else's design.
Would you simply resign?

It's peculiar how you're blind —
Self-imposed by your own mind.
Could you just stop and listen,
See how these plates glisten?
If you rest for a moment, let others see it,
Would they be happy?
Even I'd feel giddy,
Seeing you work to the bone,
Rather than bowing to a lion's throne.

Now look at those plates —
Does the shine stay the same when they glisten?
Then you'll hear, "They're dirty."
Only a little — but it still feels like a missile,
Words that cut, born from your husband's vision.

Dear friend,
Loathe me.
Say you ate me —
I'm no moralist, I admit,
But I beg you trust my selfish analysis:

Caring isn't always loving,
And sometimes, they're only loathing.
You're yearned their adoration,
But can't you see that at last,
You've become a goat in a shepherd's pack,
With a wolf trailing behind your back.

I beg you to stand,
Rise from the truth you turned away,
Believe in your voice before it decayed.
But you wouldn't, even if it swallowed you whole —
Your flesh, your bones,
Your dignity now a feast
For someone else's kitchen.

You'd had lived your life always bothered,
Saturdays spent writing how not to be othered.
And you'd leave me, hanging,
Reeling at the cemetery after your cremation.

When that diary is now in my hands,
I could retell the color of your old devotion.
But you've left me here to beg and envision
A yesterday where your bottles of dreams
Weren't just the threads that held you,
Those that kept you whole,
Before they sealed your coffin,
Your ending at a pillowed cage.

And with a ghastly sigh,
I sat down and looked up at the window,
The crate your vase now hustles.

Miss Jordan
If plates that glisten turn to ash,
Clinging themselves to your cheeks,
Not before they burst your skin into a rash,
If you’ll soon become a sickly mother,
Let's carry the weight of dreams now — together —
Before you waste away from me,
A sacrificial martyr.

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