The Poet is Dyslexic

By Grace Mary Finin

Sometimes I try to count

How many steps

Each of them took as they

walked all the sudden

all distant like

Away from me and

how many steps until

I was no longer a sight

to never be seen.

Mostly I am lazy I am a failed

fruit that cannot squeeze the supposed juice

And I am not escaping the zoo

nor would I last too long as someone’s pet.

So, I watch how easy it is

For Janice to use the knife and use it more than properly

And my life is shatter-proof in some way.

She will always puncture me

And then teach me how to

aid for myself.

It would be crucifying

To say out relationship

Has never touched a side of disorientation.

If I were to ask Janice:

how is it that we came to be?

She would neglect to never answer,

to not manage a look.

They cannot look at me, I am

Hardly around but the fright of my name

Is heard from a sum of ungrateful tongues.

I am exhausting.

Home is not in reach.