A poem by Violet
If I were worth a minute of your time,
I’d fill that minute with the violence of a war
for reminding me of what I lack
what grace and charm I’ll never possess,
the futility of buying a fifty- dollar dress.
For the friends who claimed hatred for you on my behalf
the stockings which, despite valiant effort,
couldn’t hold my gut in all the way.
For the stomach, sore with cuts
from the scissors of self-vengeance,
with which I wandered that night in the rain,
stranger to any kind of strength,
and lay staring into my dark room for no reason.