TWO POEMS by SAM ZIMMERMAN
God Complex
I see your cracked corona
dead above your empty
head.
It reigns dim, dark, lacking the
light of angelic truth,
swarming over you like a gloomy
cloud.
People notice and pity you,
remaining silent as they let you
be because you are nothing without
your aching desire of godliness.
You think you portray goodness,
upright morality, the ability to change
others. Blinded by the once existent
light, you cannot see the truth.
We see the darkness underneath,
the swirling devilish thoughts where
your brain should be,
except you traded that to the devil
for your oh so desired God Complex.
The truth is you're just as corrupt
as the rest of us.
It takes one to know one,
and my dear what you are is
a miserable miscreant riding
out your final wishes on the
sea-like heart strings of those
you desire to fix.
With your chipped corona,
you rip through each string like a
red- hot knife.
Leaving them worse off
than when you started.
Satan knows the deal he made,
yet your mind remains trouble free
until he drags you down underneath.
Welcome to hell.
The existence of reality.
Consent is key, and hunny,
you never asked permission
to try to change people for your own good.
upon you i wish the most minor inconveniences.
I hope each time you find yourself wearing shoes,
a pebble finds its way in, but you are unable to
seek it. Feeling it roll under your foot, pricking it with
each step, but its lack of presence makes you question
your sanity.
I hope each yellow traffic light that you drive toward
turns red just as you think you could make it through.
That you have to step on the breaks just hard enough
to send your head backwards against the headrest of
the driver's seat.
I hope every time you use the bathroom, there is nothing
but a single square sheet left on the roll, and
the rest of your stock has been depleted. That no one
is home to help you and you are left sitting in your
own misery.
I hope cartons of milk are sour each time you open
them to make your morning bowl of cereal,
the sour scent filtrating through your nose.
That maybe-- just maybe it’ll curdle into chunks
and you will have to get rid of it on your own.
I hope you always come up a penny short when
you go to a store, and the cashier gives you a
hard time about it. That no matter how much you
prepare yourself with endless pockets of change,
life finds another way to screw you over.
I hope when you lie in bed at night you feel
crumbs touching your bare skin, but you can’t
find them in your bed sheets. That the crumbs
scratch your skin, leaving subtle reminders
of your own wrongdoing.
I hope you always get paper cuts between your
fingers rather than along your fingertips.
I know you always hated that. I can remember
you cursing and whining like a child each time
it happened.
I hope when you go to make your morning pot of
coffee you pour salt in it by mistake. That you take
a big sip just to find the taste of the ocean lingering
at the top of your coffee cup.
I hope each of your alarms never go off,
and your clocks are always running ten
minutes early. You will be late for everything.
Not that you were ever on time.
I hope the hole in your bedroom wall reminds you of how you
treated me. That the blow you took at the drywall lingers in
the base of your stomach, dull, achy, the feel of existential
anxiety clinging to your chest.
I hope each time you mention my name, melancholy
hangs in your mouth, leaving a battery acid
taste that you can never get rid of. Each time you
tell your story, you’re the victim. You lie.
Sam Zimmerman is a Contributing Editor for Pine Hills Review and a current graduate student at SUNY New Paltz. She loves experimenting with different types of poetry and writing creative nonfiction. Her work has been featured in Sledgehammer Lit. She currently resides in a small town in the middle of nowhere in New York. You can keep up with her on Twitter.