Am I a martyr?
Because I feel like I'm sacrificing only for others.
It kills me to think I'm like a mini magnet.
I'll attract the paper clips
but I'm attached to the fridge--
just like everyone else.
I can't think straight.
Where's my brain?
I need rescuing like a poor cat
stuck up in a maple tree engulfed in poison ivy.
So cliched, I know
but I feel I've been trapped for fifteen long years.
The dogs down there
ugly little pit bulls
they maul me, harass me from below
Where's the fireman to rescue me
from my sure fate?
If this is the crowd I attract,
then I'll toughen up and deal
but I know this isn't all of them
or so I've been told.
And it gets no worse than these shallow, desperate, cocky squares.
It's just, all the knights in shining armor,
they need reassurance of me
the kind that I could never give them;
my awkward exoskeleton, it offers them no comfort
in their selection of a diverse, misfit female
in this yuppie sea of female androids.
They need watering once in a while
before they bloom.
I still can't think straight.
What to do?
I'll just sit up here in this maple tree--
maybe for an hour, a day,
maybe until I cease to exist
even in memory--
but I'm waiting for that damn firefighter
to take me far, far away from here
until I can't even hear a faint excuse for a bark anymore.