Florence Mango

You Are A Sick Pattern

Nobody is good, I see–

Too close to me,

too far from the sun.

The light of day is gone

from me, from them, from you.

 

And now I can’t love,

or even want to, because

every man with a beard is you.

Every bald man is your friend,

every loud step is a pounce,

and every corner I turn might hold you,

or something like you.

 

Maybe I’m no good either,

because I can’t imagine him, or you, or him

being anything but wrong, all wrong;

Every man wants to kill me.

 

I don’t want to stand big and tall,

I don’t want neck-sized hands.

I just want everyone to stop killing me,

so I can stop leading with masonry.

 

I want to be soft

and still left unharmed.

I wasn’t made to build walls–

I was made to walk through them,

to fall in love with locksmiths

who can defy my odd structures.

 

But nobody is good, I see.

You don’t pick locks,

you just break in,

and it’s not valiant,

it’s not even brave.

You’ve only made a mess of my home.