Dear Reader, I Don’t Trust You

03/02/2009 19:28

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Eric Morago

This poem came out of my frustrations with my graduate poetry workshop, and feeling like I had to write poems to please everyone in workshop. Screw it. I wasn’t interested in writing like them. This poem is a pissed off declaration of that.

If you were a sushi chef, I’d never want
you serving me blowfish. If you tried
convincing me you were a respectable
dominatrix, I’d have trouble believing

you’d stop if I cried out the safe word.
And don’t get me started on dark alleys.
For all I know, you’re the creepy thing
lurking in shadows, all claws and fangs,

hungry to suck the life from my throat.
I wouldn’t even trust you to have my
back in a bar fight. I’ve such a bad habit
for bluntness that you’d probably break

a bottle over my skull yourself if given
half the chance and an empty beer.
Sorry. It’s nothing personal. As a writer,
I’ve been told I needed to earn your trust

before I should give you mine, but I’m
far too self-destructive for that. I’d rather
sabotage our relationship from the start
with a snarky title, than put in all that work.

The effort it would take to get you to like
me could be better spent trying to write
the word spine, in fire, on my own back,
so I didn’t need to rely on you to have mine.

Then, when I self-immolate into one burning
poem, sift though the ash and you’ll find my
heart, shrunken, yet still intact—that perfect
metaphor you always wanted from me.

Add to: DIGG

Dear Reader, I Don’t Trust You

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