Poetry by Dythandra

Not my Scene

It's the first meeting of the year
Lunch time--room 309.
They wonder if the media will show up this time
To give the defenders of morality
Reason to get their signs out of the garage.

I sit in a back corner,
Unallied. I like it that way.

They're all there--those who've known since 6th grade,
Those who aren't sure,
Even the fag hags in training.

Tommy Hilfiger should've put more stripes in his logo--
He'd get rich off this crew.

They begin--volunteers self-disclose.
It's like testimonies at a revival meeting
Presided over by the "sponsor",
Who smiles supportively and leads the applause
After each weakling is finished whining.

I notice one butch glance in the doorway
She surveys the room--is about to move on
Then sees me, and steps inside.
Sadly, for her, not my type
But I never write off a game piece
When my games are so much fun.

Then our "leader"--the face of this club
Seen on local television
Each year when the evening news lacks
Plane crashes or hollywood scandal
He begins his self disclosure.

He tells of his adolescent angst,
The regrets of his sham marriage
The hatred of the community
Where he first revealed his truth.

I plead guilty to a smirk,
As I watch him choke up
And tears of sycophant sympathy
Glisten among a few disciples
throughout the room.

I've had enough--when they offer everyone a pin
To show solidarity in the hallways
I gracelessly decline.

Their prophet sees it all, and out loud,
in front of the group--his biggest mistake--
He asks why I don't want one.

(Perhaps it's payback for my listening skills
during his earlier pityfest.)

Normally not one to proclaim to the masses
What I can dagger through the hearts of individuals
I rise to the occasion.

"I don't need any pins of yours"--here I allow myself
a meaningful glance at "Rocky", as she has dubbed herself--
"I have enough body art of my own, thanks."

Then, I mock their weakness--their need for support
The world does not frighten me--I create fear.
"I don't need to spend my lunchtime playing therapy group
for an aging queen too cheap to pay a shrink."

The room is silent except for someone weeping quietly
off in a corner. Not cowed by my words, the teacher--
a few disciples crowded protectively around him--
Asks why I bothered to come.

"It's some cheap entertainment 'til the weather's good enough
for the skaters and the wiggas to start pounding each other
out on the back parking lot again."

I know when to exit for best effect, but as I near the door,
I make my only strategic mistake.
"Where did you learn to be so angry?"

I could've walked on--his voice was soft,
I might not have heard him.

But I stopped. They waited.

Life is what it is, I explain,
I ask no quarter and give none.

"Is that what your parents taught you?"

"My parents? A father who hides in is study,
lost in drink--spending all his time making online dates
He never intends to keep?"

"My mother--joining every committee in sight
To hide from her only child, who scares the hell out of her?"

I hate myself the moment the pathetic syllables
Escape my lips. I hate worse, what I see next:

Empathy.

I don't need it, him, or them.

I do break a lot of windows that night, though.