bitter jazz

selfness or not, read this poem

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If I were selfless, my glasses wouldn’t need nose pads

My pride won’t let me do less
Duty won’t let me be different

I need to settle down, yet don’t know how
How—am I human?
Do I even care anymore?

I’m the words in your ear
the illusion in your narrative
the vulgarity in your hatred
I am the pads rubbing off skin from the bridge of your nose
so you can see the work

Baby, you’re bitter jazz
you’ll be in a casket
when the shades come off

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