I’d hoped I’d have no need to get upset
though I’ve been others’ sirloin before, burned
outside but juicy in. Juice they won’t get.
I stopped being eatable when they earned
all their scorn; insisting that I just don’t,
“get it.” True, there was a lot I never
got from them, which is why they’re not a note
I sing, a name I’ll claim as a lover
who did me wrong. They’re dead space I cast down
like a jealous god; heartbroken to find
out what they did when I wasn’t around.
Odd how the hungry ones get left behind.
I’d say: Tell me that I’m wrong about you.
Show me that’s something you can even do.