madeleine

maybe i can't write?
maybe this vacant hope for this ability
is all i have to hold on to?
but when i write,
what if words are said but no meaning?
sentences put down but brought no life?
if i can't write, then i cannot do,
and if i cannot do,
then i am such a mediocre girl,
mediocre madeleine

mirandised

do you know what it feels like,
being the other person.
the stranger on the outside.
the second class citizen.
i just sit there and wait,
some bizzare form of
masochistic righteousness.
hanging on her every word,
entranced by her every move
waiting like a lapdog,
scraps at the table of her love
just to be there, for that one
that one handout of hope.