I spit out my feelings like watermelon seeds,
small and useless —
meant to be discarded, like the M.R.S degree
I ‘supposedly’ moved here for.
I climb the staircase
and realize the rich have two,
when my reflection didn’t check me back out.
The carpet tries to swallow my feet,
lower me below the chandelier,
whispering, “Join in, money’s fun.”
I’m tired of men who touch like they’re counting.
Tired of women parading titles, counting stones,
thumbing themselves around
like the livestock I showed in 4-H.
Sadness smells like lavender detergent
and tastes cleaner served in a crystal glass.
They smile and say, “Drink it down,
It tastes of salvation.”
I make it up, and in the marble tub,
cradling my insides,
I wonder how long luxury will keep me alive.
s.g
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
The Official Poetry Collection of WSS
