Poetry by the Emo Child

Parentals

Dear, would you mind coming down to dinner?
Mortal food pleases me not, mother

I sit and contemplate my surroundings
Too middle class, too white, too suburban.
My room should have stalactites
And stalagmites,
Chewing intruders.

Honey, how come you never bring any boys to the house ?
Do you really want to hear the answer to that?

How about something angstful and easy...
The boys at my school are stupid
I'm not really as popular as the cheerleader sluts
I'm saving myself for...
No not even I can say that with a straight face
And that's what you want, isn't it mother...
A "straight" face.

I see you wondering as you timidly tiptoe into my room
Glancing at things you cannot begin to comprehend

So much.... black, really dear--doesn't it depress you?
You continued breathing depresses me, mater dearest
But I can't change that... just yet.

I see those books you bring home from the library
"How to Talk to Your Troubled Teen"
I peruse it them while you sleep.
My responses are more disturbing
When I script them first.

Please sweetheart, wouldn't you prefer a tidy room?
Fire is the ultimate cleanser, mother.

Maybe your father can talk some sense into you...

He can't even make eye contact
Maybe he's noticed his liquor decanters
Are slowly filling with water.

Or maybe...

I found his secret stash of porn--old school, VHS.
I did a little editing...
Videos of my birthdays, preschool graduations, and such
In place of the money shots.
I wonder if he's noticed?

I think it's time
For a bigger allowance.