It’s Saturday morning while I scroll FB,
Blowing whisps over a fox mug full of coffee,
Sipping so I don’t burn my tongue and I stumble upon a poet.
I follow BP and Olivia Gatwood pauses my thumb, speaking truth about
Women from Long Island and Manic Pixie Dream Girls so
I pop to Amazon to order her new book and
I wonder if BP is basic-bitch low-brow lyricism, maybe
it’s like Hallmark Cards, four line stanzas for Millennials…
eh who cares? It speaks truth to me.
If I were going to write a poem about mental illness
It would be from the broken perspective I have of it –
equal parts understanding and scornful of it’s sudden “popularity,” like
a block heel spurned by sleek stilettos until
10 years later we love it again because
we are a boring and predictable species.
I’m harsh and I’m cynical, judgmental like my grandma can be when
she perceives bêtes or glaring inadequacies but
that biting remark speaks truth to me too.
In a world with our lives laid bare by choice into
curated, campified versions of ourselves,
What would Susan make of these parades?
What would Olivia say – I don’t know –
Her book hasn’t arrived yet and anyway
the caffeine’s taken hold, my tongue’s scratched from its heat so
I switch over to WP to cleanse the muddied thoughts social media breeds because
I’ve clearly written two poems in one and the world needs to know it, obvi.