misfit
What are tables for If not to be turned over
they hand you sandpaper
point to your jagged edges
the parts that catch
on doorframes
built for docile shapes
they say:
"just a little less
of this brittle honesty
a little more
of that digestible charm
and you'll slide through"
but the key
that opens everything
has no obedient edges left
to turn the rusted lock
A bee
is a catastrophic design
aerodynamically
impossible
by every
rational
measure
yet it stumbles
drunk
between flower
and hive
carrying the world's
reckless sweetness
when they offer you
their anemic vision
a token seat
at the table
if
you'll just
amputate
your inconvenient limbs
ask yourself:
what are tables for
if not to be turned over
when they're built
on swallowed bones?
"the nail
that juts up
gets hammered down"
or so the coward's saying goes
but the nail
that stubbornly juts
also holds
the trembling roof
in the howling storm
your difference
is not the stumbling block
to making change
it is the iron lever
the unforgiving fulcrum
the precise angle
required
to move what's calcified
so when they insist
you sand yourself docile
become palatable
earn your threadbare right
to whisper
remember:
the match nestling
obediently in the box
never starts the hungry fire
somewhere beyond
their sterile walls
others are waiting
for the spark
only your violent friction
can create