We Give Our Love Away, Keep None For Ourselves

Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
folks always say, but sometimes,
something else happens,
a sort of "out of sight,
out of mind" thing.
And there's nothing poetic about it.
There aren't shards
or pieces of shrapnel
to pluck away, all obviously dangerous.
The glass glitters on the road,
but "glitters" isn't the word
just anyone would use,
just a special little asshole
who likes to waste your time
with detail, with fragments
of reality so perfect, you throw up
a little bit just thinking about them.
So, you wait. You wait for someone
to look you in the eyes
and really see what dances behind them,
but you wait
for a long damn time.

So Many Illustrations

Why do you come here
When you know it makes things hard for me?
When you know, oh
Why do you come?
- Morrissey


You found someone new, which is fine.
But that means that you shouldn't come over here drunk.
And you shouldn't kiss your ex on the forehead.
And you shouldn't drive past her house.
And you shouldn't call her and make her cry.
And you shouldn't take
all of her friends away, and lie about
how things ended.
Because you just shouldn't.

You found someone new, which is fine.
But that means that you shouldn't
love two people at once.
And you shouldn't call one of them your soul mate,
the one you're no longer sleeping next to.
And you shouldn't cry in someone else's arms
the tears you share with your "soul mate."
And you shouldn't say, "I'm sorry for how you feel"
when you really aren't sorry, not sorry at all.

Listen Up

Dear Fellow Mean Humans, Particularly in Positions of Power:

Most of the time, I try to be as kind and patient as possible, but lately, I've had really awful thoughts about you, all of you, and how you've screwed us little people over. I'm tired. I'm tired of the fact that you seem to be rewarded for your bullying, your manipulation, your insincerity, your greed. I'm tired of feeling like I'm somehow defending your sorry butts when I say, "humans are basically good." You are small in number, but you do so much damage, and I'm tired of it. So, I'm begging you, for the love of all that is precious in this world, stop. If you don't stop, know this: you will always face opposition. There will always be other people -- other good, hardworking, positive, honest people -- who will try to defeat you and all you represent. That's right, I'm coming after you. I'm coming after you with my education. I'm coming after you with my womanhood. I'm coming after you -- not submitting to your fear, your pressures, your boot heels on my throat. So, watch yourselves, because we are armed with more than just kindness and patience. We are armed with courage and love, justice and knowledge. And you -- all of you, who multiply and multiply -- will go down in flames, if it takes us thousands of years.

Sincerely,
Shannon Ranee McKeehen
One of "The Little People," and there are a lot of us.

December 1

All these little suicides
they hardly make a mark.
I can take these fun-house rides --
I'm a natural in the dark.
- The Golden Palominos


Forgot to wear my chains and name tag
today and accept my role as monster.
Forgot to leave your light on,
shut mine off, and accept my role as fuck-up.
If I suddenly did everything right,
found a way to feed myself before I
paid every dollar, comforted every person,
it would do nothing. There would still be me
and the yellow wallpaper,
the delusions of womanhood, of youth,
of danger. There would still be pieces of me
that would anger you
that wouldn't fit together
quite right. Because it's my insanity,
my vanilla whitewash
that makes me invisible, intolerable.
But when I talk about it,
I'm doing something wrong.
But when I keep it to myself,
I'm doing something wrong.
But when I do the best I can,
I'm doing something wrong.
My tenderness, all vulnerable,
is found by the side of the road,
a deer who should've known better
but didn't.

Rough Draft

I don't believe that God is a little white lie,
but I also don't believe
that God is a mascot,
or a stain on your shirt,
or the receiver of your dead letters.
I don't believe that God is a Man,
wielding his dick like a lightening bolt,
sharpening his beard with his static fingers,
waiting to flash his petty hot anger
like a red-faced child in a grocery store.

Instead, I believe
that God is an artist,
a special kind of junkie,
functional but barely,
experiencing fits of creativity,
leaving his mark
on each little piece,
hand-carving and hand-painting
every squirrel, every rabbit,
every fish, every human,
until the night comes
and bathes each creation
in abstraction and blur.

I believe that God looks at each tiny bit
with wonder, care,
all romantic and sentimental,
until fragments of light pierce the breast
of every squirrel, every rabbit,
every fish, every human,
until those fragments, those pieces of Godself,
become souls -- not fully-formed,
not actualized just yet, but there,
flooding each crevice with light.

And maybe we are precious, and maybe we are loved.
And maybe we get dropped by accident,
scuff marks, dents showing.
And maybe we're all sappy
and silly and weird.
And maybe we will be OK,
full of wonder and care.