A Cockroach With Winter Boots

Don’t tell me what to write about.

Beyond the headache that feels like traffic jam in my forehead

and my breath, short and shorter,

Please refrain from telling me what to say

So that I can seem more relevant to you.

I would so love to think about mountains and homemade marmalade

Or the subtle meaning of your tattoos

I’m happy they feel natural to you.

But under this injected madness

I could only think of lying under the bed

And among suitcases in the luggage room

I know you want to hear me say things this time, but

I’m occupied. They’re trying to drain my soul (which I believe I had)
Seems it’s about to finish. Can you hold?

In the meantime

The only phrase I can muster is this:

A cockroach with winter boots.

What’s the question again?

Sorry, my brain is now a sandbox

And my mouth hangs open awaiting more

Right. I should talk about inequality and how does that make me feel

And the protests I have been to

But we should also finally plan that summer holiday!

*The cost will be shared because we are equals like that.

But my dear, you knew it. You already knew it.

How about this.

Why don’t you use those beautiful eyes

To pierce the truth as you say you do anyway?

I’m no longer seeing for you or under your instruction

My eye sockets are empty. I filled them with olives for the looks.

But if you really insist, my response would still be this:

A cockroach with winter boots.

December 7, 2023