Elizebeth Turnquist

I’m not a winner
my hard work hasn’t lead
to some great reward
I’m just getting by

I haven’t been blessed
by easy chances or ready success
I’m very aware that life is hard

I don’t have lots of friends
and I’m not easy to know
popularity isn’t something I have
or even something I strive for

I’m terrible at meeting new people
experience has taught me that only a few
won’t blanch when they see the real me

I’m not a pretty girl
you could call me big or bold
but never dainty, graceful, or serene

I’m stuborn and prideful
I might know how to play the game
but I can’t stomach it
so I sit on the sidelines

I won’t give everything
so that everyone will like me
I’d rather like myself

Maybe I am to be pittied
I don’t have that much
just my self respect
people I’d trust with my life
and a passion that drives me

measured against the world
I’m not a winner
some might even go so far
as to call me a loser
but at least I’m a happy loser
instead of a depressed sucess.

Polite society is ridiculous

Don’t talk to me about bootstraps

This is harder than it sounds

Work is presented as not plesant

The social contract doesn’t suggest joy

Work is a pain we must endure

But life is too short to hate

You give a job so much time

Youth, beauty, and health,

You can stun flies with fumes

Your vinegar may be fragrant

But it isn’t exactly attractive

It only captivates other stinkers

Honey is sweet and lasting

It sparkles in the sun

If you dont want enemies

Try to be less mean or cruel

Consider a different fuel

Try fake it til you make it

Even if the cake is inedible

You can still layer it with frosting

It’s not that flies are smart

But they don’t return to bitter.

I don’t owe corporate greed

My sick days are owed to me

They are a part of my liberty

I deserve to rest and recoperate

I’m not stealing from billionaires

By having the common cold

Or needing a mental health day

Or taking care of family

The news tries to spin it

Like sick days are theft

That any lack of productivity

Is a corporate loss

From their mountains of wealth

But that’s pure gasslighting

A spin and twist of the truth

Eugenics and abelist rhetoric

I see past their con

And wonder how anyone buys it.

Let me be the one you respect

Not the one you’d sext

Because I’m past the age

Of being a piece of ass

I’m old enough to be a friend

Glad to let the shine wane

I don’t want the polish of new

I need to be a colloquial term

Deem me your “Ol’ girl”

A term of sexless endearment

Removed from sex appeal.

Men don’t want wide ass attitude

I’m supposed to be gracious

Understanding and forgiving

Of my oppressors

Because they are human

Because they don’t know better

And me questioning their actions

Doesn’t fit their narrative

I’m supposed to be nice

And play the game silently

While they demean me

While they ignore my needs

Because speaking up is rude

Being loud is unseemly

And when they pile my plate full

I’m supposed to smile at the shit

The steaming pile they give to me

And act like I’m eager to eat it.

There are two types of hypochondriac

Being miserable is normal

I pass as able-bodied

Be yourself isn’t always good advice

The law doesn’t prosecute implicit bias

I was awesome in bed

And rarely respected by men

A female iconoclast

Easier to label me as crazy

Perceived crazy is female power

More than actual mental illness

Didn’t fit in to the social standard

Or forced gender roles

My crazy eyes were just wide

Full of my ability to think

Eyes full of true to myself

Instead of complicit in servitude.

Crazy cat ladies don’t seek approval

I can be uniquely me

This isn’t really my story

Grandma was angry and bitter

Spreading around misery

Sharing her ongoing pain

My Mother broke the cycle

She defied the bitter

She chose authentic kindness

So I emulate mom’s choice

I may live in pain

But I don’t have to spread it

I don’t have to infect others

Sharing my pain isn’t caring

I don’t choose bitter or angry

I choose to sappy sweet

I choose to infect my joy.

I wanna be a rocking chair

Don’t ask me for advice

I’m not looking to influence you

Certainly not a guru

Or a psychic or telepathic

I know my choices

And how to live with them

My knowledge stops in myself

I don’t have your lived experience

Or know how you will feel

I don’t have a model of you

To reference in my opinions

So I keep them to myself

Let us not confuse each other

Or confound our perspectives

I restrict my words

On purpose.

I have no control

It would help if I could let go

The things that happened

Are now sealed in the past

My mind spinning over mistakes

Just makes the now miserable

But I can’t change my past

I may have some control

Of how my future self acts

But mistakes are human

And I’m prone to be flawed

So I’m stewing in my juices

These ruminations eat at me

But produce nothing of value

Here I am trying to let go

As my anxious mind clings.

The list of things I can’t change is long

Bosses are bullies by design

The dance of half truths

Respectful of difference