small tragedies

pile-up

like lice

and make me itch.

I try to scratch them.

If I wasn’t able to

I would go insane.

I was worried I wouldn’t write, if I changed jobs

I was worried I couldn’t type, with the stress

but the power grows inside me

like a baby, just the same.

Nothing is going to stop this birth

I might have it

in my car.

My belief can’t be aborted

I can hold back

but my soul begins to contract.

When I am weak, without child

my enemies smile. They are happy to see

my mopey shoulders,

but when I stand erect

because of the sex inside me

they scowl

like wounded vaginas.

The universities are full of ignorant people

How appropriate.

Those with high SATs

don’t read.

I am attracted to the library

like dust.

I must get in there

Then, I will put myself

on the shelf

and wait.