Undeserving. Poem by Kim Dang

It's like coddling myself with teardrops.
The aches of glottal stops.
The stare of unplanned meditation
dreading a diagnose of maybe having in my possession
this malignant, unhealthy imbalance.

The err of basking in complications.
Like every tangent is worth it -
when they're worthless.
Like my mental deviations aren't self indulgent.
Like my justifications were unanimously warranted.
As if I did vote for this.

Here are my two cents, beggar man.
Our pain is evolutionarily equivalent in my mental land,
I'll remit your alibi of differing circumstance.
I'm too observant; it's cursing my oracle assumptions.
It's hurting, being this desolately open.

Though unspoken, I feel it.
Each hesitation, each omission like peas
underneath stacks of mattresses for that princess
And I'm not such the accomplished actress
to feign a sanguine demeanor
through apparent upheaval.

Exposing masquerades,
so that in my pink dress, I'm porcelain,
Enough to don the role of a graceful master;
acquitting any operative punishment.
Why, then, do I feel the very real, very bitter nervousness
prototypical of a battered servant?