Silver Spoons

Silver spoons still rust,
the waste is inevitable,
or so they say,
they say you’re supposed
to buy a nice car and
spruce yourself up. 

That’s the purpose of
life. That’s your only
hope.
 

Do not marry someone
if they cannot adorn you in
elegance, jewelry, plane
tickets, land 

– and noone will love you with
a tongue like that, young lady. 

Do you know how most of my 
evenings were spent?
Do you want a little taste
of my so called upper-hand?

Idled silence, ritualistic
beatings 
on the family punching bag,
the girl who couldn’t 
be better,
act better,
think better,
do better. 

You’ll live in a van down by
the river. 
What if I want to?

I sat there in a stupor,
confused and degraded,
I tasted liquor for the first
time and all it reminded
me of was guilt. 

I liked dirty hands and 
a room full of curious
misfits over an adorning
masquerade lined with 
treachery and lies. 

The American dream is a damn
fraud. And it turns people sick

I liked the beauty of the street
lights. 
I wanted to roll around
and experiment,
let it teach
me a thing or two.
I wanted to think and
feel and bleed and fuck –

but it wasn’t ladylike
It wasn’t appropriate
So here I am, a lady,
nothing less, and nothing
more. 

And I’m livid. 
That I never knew true
affection, or a pleasant
touch.  

I never learned how to trust
a man or how to take care
of myself or talk myself
up when I was insecure. 

I’ve been set back so many
decades,
by this fucking spoon. 
So many years wasted,
so many horrible memories 
stilled in black and white
polaroids I can never burn. 

I’m sad, albeit a little 
broken still, trying to find
my true identity past a
a pair of heels and pretty
words. 

But silver spoons 
still rust. 
Especially 
when you
spit
them 
out. 

BIATA, ‘have patience, I’m still learning

3 thoughts on “Silver Spoons

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