there is something wrong with her.

poem

she looks fine to me

there is something wrong with her,
he thought. 
when they put those tubes down his mothers throat 
she didn’t even send a card,
just shrugged and said it was hallmark’s fault for making them all ugly.
to her, the whole greeting card business was fucking stupid,
and an altogether inadequate way
to say anything worth saying, anyhow.

there is something wrong with her, 
he thought. 
why else would she answer 
polite questions from strangers with honesty? 
(I mean, honestly)
why else does she insist on wearing turtlenecks knowing full well 
they make her sweatered tits especially slutty?

there is something wrong with her, 
he thought. 
what kind of a girl would confess
that her spirit animal must be a stray cat?
not a dolphin, or a pony, or a fawn
like some of the others. 
but a stray
proud to be fed by various people,
not looking to be kept. 

there is something wrong with her, 
he thought. 
at her age, her eyeliner is still crooked. 
when asked why she gave up on writing 
she blamed an English professor who suggested 
“write the poem you need to survive today,”
and tossed her hands up in resignation.
shouting “it was never about survival!”
I mean, really.
at her age, what kind of person is only writing for the parts of herself 
she is still actively trying to kill?