The Manifesto

I have never loved a goddamn thing,
not even the little birdie fallen from nest,
broken wing―
Not beast I
will not eat you…
But I may watch passively
as you die.
 
No, I have never loved―
and I weigh about as much
as a tear.
Not monster,
I am just the only kid
who showed up at this birthday party.
No creature, my form
is something similar to your own.
Mother Nature did
nurse this first born
for she is the one
who says we all
die alone,
and I only listen,
only remember
the stranded siren’s song.
 
           *

These ten thousand year old bones
have seen too much extinction,
too fragile to bare the weight upon my breast―
the red streak of your morality,
your arduous fears, with the transparent excuse
that it is the color you love the best,
because I pray to a mad florescent queen,
and even if I hurt,
or was hurt,
or am the one to brandish the truthful word…
Even if I acknowledge
your fears are my own,
I will only ever speak French to your
Polynesian tongue
because that is the way of the dead
once crossed over all that remains
is the bit of cold in an empty room,
the rattle of previously expressed pain,
the scent of spilled perfume
still looking for an exit.
 
But pause,
take a moment to breathe.
Even manifestos have dot dot dots.
Even Hitlers have needs
to talk about beautiful flowers
if only to prove
the glass is still clear
or that one has finally managed
to see past the imprint of lips,
fingertips,
and microscopic cells
which cling like my own
denial.
 
© Coleen T. Houlihan

First published in Spare Change News.