VCR Life

Fast-forward: life lived before I was even born,
passing by people like Benjamin Button – or his creator – on my
way through town; I’d heard it was better before I came round,
but that’s not bother – I’ll be gone soon anyways. Just another
kid overwhelmed by her angst, they’ll say, reading my clichéd
notebooks of poetry and dark drawings. Few will question, or
even care, that I’d become an octogenarian at twenty-two.
Rewind: time spent alone goes by so much slower.

Play: Something I’d wish I’d done more of, it might’ve made a
difference in my life, but I guess now I’ll never know. Dancing
with the quarterback never was my thing. I preferred the captain
of the cheerleading squad: no brains, totally hot bod – blonde
hair means more than just your promiscuity it’s your outlook on
life broadcast to the world; your ambition limited by the typecast
role you’re forced into: secretary or soccer mom – that’s how they
see women anyways: mothers or whores, no?
Stop: no more clichéd statements or assumptions.
Stop: no more poète maudit.
Stop: no more me.