Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 03/29/19

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consignment identities
I tore the frames from off your face.
You still weren’t you.
I tore the lining out of the jacket that
someone else had given you–
you still weren’t you / you still weren’t
you: were lost somewhere
under “someone now” trinkets
meant to make you into something,
given you by someone else.
And I guess what you have
isn’t really yours, which means,
so sadly, I never knew you
(even after I slapped off your
stupid costume).
I always think I know liars from
soothe-sayers, but
I don’t know anything but broken promises.
Headachey, tumble-dried, and under-whelmed
one inevitably begins to explore other options
seeking
an escape from spontaneous combustion.
But what if there are no more options?
Head-achey, and tumble-dried
at least what I own is really mine;
It actually belongs to me.
I’m not a
consignment-conglomerate-of-identities.
Haphazard, unintended, and crumbled into cruelty.
Why does a person
sometimes turn cruel
when confronted with an obvious truth
indicating that they hurt someone?
As.if.it.were.not.obvious.
People just don’t discuss the damage others inflict
upon each other: out of politeness.
It’s a heavy rock to carry over
way too many rivers.
So, I’m the one without any clothes.
And it’s damn near a fashion show
at the dentist;
A goddamn costume-ball while you grow–
oh-but-that’s-not-all.
Once you’re grown,
the costume changes
(from clothing to words)
(from brands to faces).
And even though you already knew
that it was fucked
before,
things become a million times more fucked up
once you ‘can’ decide to ‘walk’ out the ‘door’–
whatever the Hell that may mean.
At least before the costume had words
and colors, and flashy,
flashy logos
scrawled across in
pop-culture-type ills.
Now it just emulates disgusting necessities.
Because
“we’re adults,”
can’t you see?
This is not a game to me.
This is my life.
I will live and then die.
Cannot hang around
this make-believe lie.
I don’t even know
what the fuck is going on.
We make each other smile/then
make each other cry
over nothing over nothing over nothing
again, while meanwhile:
Head-achey, and tumble-dried,
I’m dizzy.
But I just have to walk around this way.
Dizzy.
Maybe for the rest of my life.
But fuck it: It’s better than lying down.
©C. Ward all rights reserved
C. Ward has been writing poetry all her life. She lives in CT with all the cats and is a member of Dark Horse Appalachia: a collective of poets and artists who seek to further encourage the arts in the region and to support Coal River Mountain Watch (which she is honored to be a part of). Her work has been published in Five 2 One: An Art and Literary Journal and currently you can find it on her page on Facebook, O. Monger / C. Ward that she shares with her kindred-poet spirit, Olaf Monger.

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