Almost Seen

S. R. Gabriels

Glad you're gold, 'cuz

my silver sliver's been stolen.

You say you gotta "live to love," but

my survival's survivin' on my love to live.

Your chair, a throne. Mine?

Charred. Thorned. I sit alone.

That's okay.

Hope you get the hype, you got it! Shhh,

don't tell her. (My heels crack on her healed "hope.")

Your daughter—her laughter, so sweet and

ever have I known her to never sweat the slaughter

of opinions. Of truth. That's great. I—I'm happy. I am...

We're the same? What? Were you somewhat

unaware of me under where you stomp your boots?

The rubber of your soles is equal

to my starved, ribbed soul—it

tastes like garbage. In your garage, where

your car is. No, I don't need a get-well card.

Policy is fallacy—you police me when you fall, I see

crude cruelty. I cried, caring for your curiosity

of "what it must be like" to be

most like me. You couldn't care.

See your lie?

Good.

Now lie in what you see.