About no incident in particular. Just feelings, I suppose.
It’s really not a poem. It’s just a vent.
Fake People, Fake Friends, Fake Compliments- a poem by Drem
June 28, 2016
“I’m okay with being known
as the girl who lives in chronic pain
from invisible knives.
Who doesn’t like to pick up the phone.
And likes to cut herself up
and play with the red ribbons
that flow from her veins.
But it’s really fucking pathetic
that you talk shit
when I’m the one who still
has the best academics behind her
and the most successful one in her creative endeavors.
I’m the one who didn’t lose faith in God
and I’m the one who feels the most guilt
over things that were out of my control.
And I’m the one who has never and will never feel safe.
But you still talk shit.
You make a fucking comment.
A left-handed compliment
about my hair,
or my whatever,
knowing I just got out of the hospital
and before that hadn’t left the house for three months.
You did know because your mother knew.
There’s no excuse.
You’re in your 30s, my God,
and got a decade on me.
Now get your foot off my face,
I’m already down.”
(C) Drem 2016