I just erased an entire poem
just like how you erased me.
They say my car smells like crayons;
They say I don’t need you.
But like the girl who moved to Prague,
she can live without you
but can’t live without loving you.
I didn’t understand what that meant,
until she lost her daughter.
Melancholic? you say,
Yes I am melancholic!
I am walking wailing melancholy on a stick,
But at least I’m honest!
I am existentialism in the mirror kissing absurdism
in a black dress,
wearing the masks of Mardi Gras.
Lay down on my radically feminist couch,
let me tell you something,
you are not bi-polar or manic-depressive:
you are just responding to the post-modern world
tasting you and spitting you out
without remorse and twisting the concept of love
to reinforce fear of attachment.
Rejection, abandonment, and objectification
are your family.
This doesn’t mean anything, you say.
Well, I reply