"The Truest Poem I Wrote About You" by Kat Giordano
The truest poem I wrote about you goes
fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you.
The truest poem I wrote about you is a sponge
that gets bigger every time you touch it
‘til you’re shriveled-up and gasping.
It follows you around, listing
your blunders and shortcomings
in a frequency only you can hear,
and then hugs you in public.
It proclaims itself the bouncer,
pretends there’s a password, and asks you
to beg from your knees for it. As you walk in,
heaving, hair still tear-glued to your face,
everyone there gives it a hug and a high five
and thanks it for all it’s done for this community.
Sometimes, it tells you nice things,
like you’re pretty, like you remind it of a painting,
like you carry some jewel within you,
but it is only plagiarizing other poems
already written about other people.
Often, you say something funny under your breath
and my poem says it in a louder voice
and takes credit for the joke.
Every day, it moves everything in your apartment
one inch to the left. It doesn’t know why
you keep bumping into all the furniture
but it thinks you two should go away for a while
and it can kiss your bruises while you sort this thing out.
The truest poem I wrote about you knows “the business.”
The truest poem I wrote about you knows your needs
and has developed a product that will fill them, the shittiest
monopoly in fine print and lingo it knows you won’t understand.
But the beautiful thing
about the truest poem I wrote
is that you’ll never get to see it.
Because this poem is best served as an empty threat,
a tease, the moment of eye contact we’ll share
across the podium now that you know it exists.
Because you’re afraid of this poem,
and you should be.