We’re all sitting at or near our desks late at night.
The ones who have gone somewhere else are enormously aware of the tension between them, and where their desk is.
Some of us are working more than one job.
I should not be taking the time to write this
We feel stupid until what we have written has been rubber-stamped.
Then we assume that we’ve got away with it and they hadn’t really read our work.
We feel like we’re cheating.
We’re waiting to be found out.
We feel like we’re ugly because we’re single.
We feel like we’re ugly because we’re fat.
We feel like we’re unloved because we’re ugly.
We feel unkind because we’re jealous.
We feel uneasy because we never admit to any of that.
Maybe we’re still poor because we’re unsuccessful –
Even though we don’t define success by cash,
There must be some reason
That everything is harder
and the reason must be because what we’re doing
is worse than what everyone else is doing.
Half of us are looking in the mirror to that rationale whilst working on Marxisms.
We feel bad because we ought to know better.
I feel bad because I’m not thin enough, not bright enough, not femme enough, not quiet enough,
and not radical enough not to care.
I don’t think of this as a poem and didn’t intend it as such, but it has come out in fragments, because we are constantly expressing support for one another,
and then turning the false standards we have disavowed inward onto ourselves.
We’ve torn ourselves out of our pattern for systems in the Outside World.
I don’t have any idea how to stop it or how to change it,
but I thought it might be some kind of a start to put a voice to it.
We are all doing this all of the time.
All at our desks, with our books and our computers,
And we’re all feeling the same.
Reckless. x x x