Cabin Fever

I want to be unbalanced.
I’m sick of sitting up straight,
pretending my head is attached
to an invisible string in the ceiling.
I’ve been wasting away for days now,
simmering in awareness of every blink.
When I complain, my mother tells me
that Americans invented self-esteem.
I don’t need self-esteem, because my only self-esteem
should be from the Bible, from Jesus Christ, from
my good grades, from the safe little shelter of my bedroom.
I’m smothered by a safe blanket of snow,
so bad at living in the cold, my face
burning a shade of squashed-pigeon-on-the-road
red. When I first saw that squashed-pigeon-on-the-road red
someone turned my face away, but I wanted to see what had
happened to the pigeons I liked to feed in Central Park.
When I saw that dead one, I saved some bread in my
jacket for the others so they could feel better.
It’s the little rules that frustrate me most. I can’t say
“stupid” but my father still taught me how to curse,
how to look for a confrontation I’m not allowed
to fight. I won’t seek it, but I won’t fear it.
What’s necessary is a larger dose of reality in my diet,
to shield my eyes from dead birds,
so I can avoid running outside screaming.
Stop stopping me from feeding the pigeons.