Lizzy Burnam 🐞

I want to raise hell 
and let myself get fat, 
to bar hop in the city 
and pick craters 
in my face in the bathroom mirror,
eat a lunch of frito lays 
and lick my fingers, 
kick and punch into the cold wind 
until it falls flat 
on the pavement. 
I know I’m not the only one 
suffering 
with this affliction: 
an itchy brain, 
boredom 
like an angry blind zit 
that won’t pop, 
so just let me be 
annoying on the internet, 
break the handle 
off my favorite coffee cup, 
set the clouds on fire 
and tug my eyelids 
into a wrinkled 
un-Sephora-ed mug. 
I am a glutton 
of the oiliest kind, 
isolation 
is my first language, 
and mostly 
I don’t want to be saved 
from myself, 
I just want
to call the book 
for the Bible 
and see the reader look up 
to sneer at me
something pompous, 
something genuine,
a real effort 
behind that sneer 
to elevate 
the earth-bound soul, 
but me? Me, 
I want to doomscroll 
until my fibromyalgia acts up 
and hammer complaints 
into the uptight syllables 
of a pyrrhic foot 
and write a real mean, 
real messy poem 
that no one wants to read. 
Look, I know 
you’re not as bad as me, 
and that’s 
the only way this works, but 
I’ve got this unloved 
part of me 
the size of a landfill, 
and all we’ve got in life 
is time to kill, 
so let me 
drink wine on the porch 
and write 
these ugly poems 
until the knot comes loose 
and if I die tomorrow 
don’t say 
I never told you 
exactly 
who I am