Kuebiko

My mother couldn’t find the words

for those strange feelings I had.

She wondered why I’d cried as a little girl

at the sight of the street beggar

covered in ghastly wounds.

My best friend was confused.

His heart was broken,

yet I was the one who’d cried.

I’d wished she’d stop hurting him,

toying with his heart, messing up his mind,

basically playing him around.

He didn’t want to upset me,

but I couldn’t be calmed down.

People mistake me a lot

for my sheer interest

in horror films and crime stories.

No, I’m not trying to be tough,

nor into sick, gory fantasies.

Today I am still struggling

just to comprehend

my misplaced rage and frustration.

They’ve always been right.

There’s only so much that anyone can do.

Sometimes I just disconnect,

retreating to my safe solitude

only to avoid draining my energy

from all the injustice and ugliness of the world.

R.