Читать книгу Second Bloom - Anya Krugovoy Silver - Страница 17

Do not make me your nightmare.

Refrain from invoking me among

the A,B,C’s of your fear.

(There’s no cure, it’s true. That’s why

I’m so blue.)

I’m not your it could be worse

or proof of the smallness of your woes.

My bad luck is not your good luck.

(And by the way, fuck you.)

Your pity, though meant to be kind,

undoes me. I find it dreary.

Nor am I the Madonna of cancer,

your bow-arched Amazon. Make me your inspiration

if you like, but I don’t deserve praise.

My days are as ordinary as yours.

And when I die, what will you do?

You’ll have lost your light-strung Santos.

Cede me back my story.

My veins spout open, then close like magic.

I don’t dread death more than you do.

Only I get to say I’m tragic.