Because sometimes I wanted him to, in secret.
An era of Handmaid's Tale hell seems fitting,
seems owed, seems earned, seems deserved
Retribution for the anger resting between my breastbones, or perhaps distraction from it
After all, it's hard to ache when the world is aflame.
Because the caged bird might sing, but she wouldn't fly
even if the door was left wide open.
Learned Helplessness, I remember reading about it for a Psychology class
that's now banned in the state of Florida for indoctrination,
which is what we're calling education these days.
Because raise your hand if you hate women and my arm is lifted, too.
Because boys like me better when I'm dying, and I think I do, too.
Because we're all angry, just can't decide at what or at who.
And a man who directs that anger towards your worst inhibitions is just a coward, not a leader
but we're losing the game of Guess Who?
When I was six, I slept in uncomfortable positions on purpose.
I’d hold my leg behind my neck and squeeze my nose between the bars of the bunk bed,
equating pain with exercise, misery with health,
convinced that soreness meant growth no matter the root.
Which is to say, with less intermediary character growth, I’d be circling the wrong name at the ballot box, too.
But instead, I’m dreadfully sympathetic to the rights of women
And horribly invested in knowledge and freedom.
I’m less afraid of change than I am of regression, and so I think Trump is a bad person.
But of course, this is an opinion I only hold based on everything I’ve ever learned about what makes a person good.
But democracy means that he will be our — collective — president, regardless of my feelings on the matter.
He will hold our — collective — nuclear codes.
If I might quote a late-night talk show host: “Making the world resemble the one you want to live in is a lunch-pail job.”
And so I try to remember that it is a privilege to live, even here, even today.
Perhaps even especially here, especially today.
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