By Angel Rosen
At the height of your treason,
you stared at your reflection in my eye.
You admire yourself in me all the time.
I’m tired of you knocking.
I tried to be a good Medusa,
turning my snakes into something useless,
my head a colorful assortment
of fringed party noisemakers.
Now, when I stare at something too long,
I become unlovable.
Come into this with ease.
Fail me once and then fail me better
and then fail me tremendously.
Drop the last canteen with water,
cut off my arm, remove me wholly,
fail me like it’s the only language you can speak.
Tell me, is the television turned up too loud?
You can’t be the only thing in here at a heinous volume.
Something has to quiet or else deafen.
My ears ring like a church bell when you exit,
and when you come back to crawl
into me like an infection, the ringing stops.
We are still for a moment and I see you examining me.
It’s good to know your source.
Another day, another failure. Feed me something
I’m allergic to, give me the bad pills,
give me nothing to write home about,
the serpents on my skull
wriggle and beg for a mouse.
Angel Rosen is a poet, Amanda Palmer fan, lesbian and tv binge-watcher. You can find her books and poems at angelrosen.com.
