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Martha
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Chekhov's hangnail
I've never been any good at poetry,
And I stumble over words from time to time,
Tempted by a hangnail I once flayed my middle finger,
Butchered cuticles, stain the page like wine,
Count the digits. How unsuitable are mine?
When it rains, well it really fucking pours,
And we made waves, but did my screaming drown out yours?
Now here we are mixing metaphors,
And sometimes it might seem like we lost the battle,
But if no one wins the war, then why keep score?
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Everything is mediocre, I'm bored and nothing satisfies,
An existential crisis mix-tape on repeat until I die,
Left decomposing on the floor this routine's awful for my posture,
Looking round for something more, sure that I'd lost you.
It might seem like we lost the battle but if no one wins the war,
then why keep score?
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