33

I’m reaching Christ’s years, as people call it.
But don’t they remember it is an age
at which he was crucified, as believed?
And I expect no less to assuage

my troubled soul, since it already is
undergoing much turmoil and torture
like a martyr of my own heart’s fancies.
I really have no hopes for the future,

since all my childhood I’ve been taught to not
act upon my feelings lest I bother
people and now I don’t know what I ought
to do when I develop some; whether

to pursue my dreams and desires, and
how so, or just give up without a fight.
Either way I choose, it has a bad end,
as if I was cursed. My life is a plight

and I have no prospects of it getting
any better any time soon or late.
It seems having a heavy heart, crying,
and despair is my default now and fate.

Thus I can only hope that some disease
would find me before long (Don’t be aghast!)
or perhaps that my womb and ovaries
would carry out their life-long threats at last;

a crash is a possible option too,
so that I would not live past another
dozen years as I really don’t want to
end up being a burden and bother

to anyone. I’ve sworn not anymore.
I’m just so tired of life, an old soul,
querying what am I even living for
when there’s nothing about me to extol.

Outside of my job I am just no good
to anyone; thus my existence seems
pointlessly futile, save for my aunthood.
I no longer have any goals or dreams.

And actually, I could never see
myself as an old lady. I rather
dread becoming one—bitter and lonely.
Not living that long would just be better.

I don’t want to be viewed as an old witch,
although I’m already starting to be
looked at like I was one by many, which
leads to folks—mainly men—avoiding me.

I may seem a strong, independent lass,
but that’s not what I want or intended;
that’s what I was made into; that’s what was
left to me, since to keep me protected

I never had anyone but myself.
I never had anyone with whom I
could fearlessly be my authentic self,
soft and vulnerable, though I have tried

to find such a guy who would be willing
to give me a chance. Unsuccessfully.
Every time I reveal what I’m feeling
to one of them, they forsake me wholly.

So if my life’s doomed to continue
in its sorry heretofore direction
and being a failure is all I’m due,
I’d rather not keep living such life on.

And until then I wish I could return
to the mind-state I was in when I was
fifteen, and my biggest sorrow-concern
when I couldn’t attend the daily mass.