Imaginary Conversations I Have In The Shower

I admire your effortless ability

to not concern yourself

with things that don’t

personally affect you

and to things that are anything less than validating

to your stone solid beliefs.


How does one have such

high and mighty

steel barriers

and a lackadaisical disposition?


The pure perplexity

of this question draws out my envy

and keeps me around,

a loyal observationalist

and documentarian

of your behavior.

It’s a fascination that’s sure to poison me, slowly.


It is truly a burden to be born a better person,

and I often wish I wasn’t.

But every day, I think about

how much,

much more we’d have to discuss,

how deep,

deeply we’d understand each other

and how far,

farther along we’d be

if you put in the

minuscule

effort to

care.


It’s a talent that comes naturally to many.


That’s not fair,

you say,

because

while others simply

breath in and out

and think thoughts

of community

your eye is forever fixed on the prize

of individuality

and you’ve never moved it before,

so why now?


Maybe.



Maybe…

but challenging as it may be for you to think of others

it’s not so easy to care

for people who don’t care

about a world outside of their own.

I work at that every day because I think

I must?


I think

in circles

to justify

and redefine

your behavior

and then write passive-aggressive poetry

just to make you feel

comfortable

because people like you

must be

redeemable

or well-intentioned

or

have a good heart

deep, deep down

in the name of positivity

and “not everything is political.”

and I try to appeal to them

but my words miss them anyways.


And it’s hard work

that nobody asked me to do.


I wish you could

care

before having to be asked,

before we have to grovel to the ground

and beg —

with bleeding hands

that clawed for those

slippery fundamentals —

that you please,

please,

look beyond yourself



and your profits

and your productivity metrics

and your I don’t have time to learn

or lift a finger

as I raise mine to point you out

and you act as if you’ve been impaled.


You make me wonder how easy it’d be

to go numb

and stop caring

about

all of it

besides me, me, me

like you.


And I could finally let you go.


But

there’s one haunting question

that will never allow me

to stop

obsessing.



What

will motivate you

to move?

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