Sensitive, You Say? — New Poems

Oh, I see.
 You spit on my shoes,
 and when I notice the stain—
 I’m the problem.
 How sensitive of me
 to not say thank you
 for the character-building mud.
 You hurl disrespect like Mardi Gras beads—
 cheap, loud, and flying at my face—
 and when I don’t clap?
 You gasp.
 You clutch your ego like a dying pet
 and whisper,
 “Geez, someone’s emotional.”
 Emotional?
 No, sweetheart.
 I’m just fluent in tone.
 I read subtext like scripture
 and your holy gospel reeks of
 backhanded grace.
 But please—
 do go on.
 Tell the world I “overreacted”
 when you snuck a knife in your handshake.
 Write it in glitter:
 “She was too sensitive.”
 Paint me hysterical in your memoir
 of spotless intentions.

 Because God forbid
 someone notice the slap
 between your syllables.
 You don’t want peace.
 You want obedience
 served with a smile
 and a side of silence.
 Well, here’s your tip:
 I don’t perform
 for people who mistake cruelty
 for charm.
 So call me sensitive—
 and I’ll call you
 exactly what you are.