P.J. Monroe's Published Writing

Sunday, June 3, 2012

Angry Bitch Poetry

It’s everything you fear modern poetry is;

Pissed off women using odd metaphors

to hurl insults at their ex-boyfriends;

It’s not so bad;

But every wanna-be-dyke in flannel

who got up in front of a barely filled coffee house

on open mike night and complained

about how he didn’t treat her good,

even though she gives great blow jobs,

ruined it for the rest of us

We lived together while I was in college;

He was not in college, had no such ambitions;

He was beautiful and he was strong

and I loved him;

My mistake;

We lived together for nine months

and then summer came;

And we decided, together,

that I should return to my mother’s house,

since she paid my bills

and I really did want to finish college;

I went;

My mother’s house was only a few miles from his,

our, house;

I went there often;

And we had sex,

and we went out,

and I cooked dinner,

and we talked about the future,

about marriage,

about children;

And we laughed

because that was always what we did best;

And then one Tuesday night,

he called me at my mother’s house

and he said (and I quote):

“I’m getting married Friday.

Wanna come to the wedding?”

You’d think there would be more to this story,

some suspicions I hadn’t voiced,

some hints of things to come that I could only see with 20/20 hindsight;

But there isn’t.

His ex-girlfriend came back one night and asked him to marry her;

And he said, “Yes.”

But now, only six years later,

he’s on his third marriage, to yet another controlling, manipulative woman;

He has eight step-children

(two of whom where born to his first wife while he was married to her)

and he’s only allowed to see half of them;

And he keeps telling everybody that he’s still in love with me-

A poem of poetic justice: how so very apt-

And I am here to admit to the small part of me

that takes incredible joy in the fact that he has ruined his life;

It’s what every girl really wants

See, now that wasn’t so bad;

No man-hating anthem full of strange images,

from a woman scorned

to be heard at some amateur poetry slam;

Just a tale with a pretty good ending,

even if I do say so myself;

It’s not everything you fear modern poetry to be