Harboring Resentment
I am harboring Resentment. She is a Big Ship — Heavy. Came in with the rising tide, ground upon the sands of my heart. There is a Plague upon the land. Braying, yodeling nonsense — its critical symptom. It was supposed to be an easy thing. Numbers nudge upward, and it just made sense — to be kind, to put fabric over face, to follow the facts, to get the cleverest jab the world has ever seen — thanks to the tireless work of the smartest women. But the Trumpeting of Elephants was so loud, that even the kindest got tired, worn down. Now the Old Broad rots slowly, marring the view of the bay. People come to look at her, ever drawn to an eyesore, prodding her planks, testing her tender thwarts. So, I went back to read the fine print. Turns out — “pretty views are 100% not guaranteed.”