Tonight's Poet Corner: The Worst Thing

The Worst Thing

by Belinda Roddie

The worst things I've ever done:

A numbered list. The kind you tuck

away into the confines of a Google Doc.
Everyone has to write a good list poem,
and not surprisingly, mine happens to be

adequately self-deprecating.

So let's begin:

1. Forgot to complete my math homework.

2. Broke the yolk in three eggs
meant for my wife's breakfast.

3. Missed multiple chances to keep

my tongue from waging temper tantrums.
Same with my fingers; I can't help getting

involved in a good old-fashioned

duel on social media.

4. Ran away from home,

though I didn't get very far. I just

wound up in the park with a pack

of cigarettes, and I smoked two

of them before throwing the rest

of their lovers away.

5. Tore the side view mirror off my

car when I was sixteen.

6. Caused a four-car accident when I

was twenty-one. The man three cars

ahead of me had decided that he wanted

to take the road less traveled by after

all, but because the driver directly
behind me remembered how brakes work,

it wound up being my fault.

7. Made a mess at the dinner table -
with words, not food, and I got slapped
across the face for it. And then
I ran away again, but not very far.

8. Created chaos with a love letter.

9. Undermined my friends' successes

because I felt unworthy of my own.
10. Lied to my boss. Sure, it was
just a white lie, in a piss poor attempt
to save face. Why are the more
innocent lies considered white?

I'm not done.

11. Lacked tact. Shocker.

12. Made a second grader cry.

13. Made a high schooler cry.

14. Made my sister cry.

15. Made my mother cry.

16. Made my father cry.
17. Made my brother cry.
18. Made my wife cry.

19. Made multiple people cry. Why

am I counting all of those as separate
crimes instead of just abridging them
into one lonely number? Because

the truth is, the little demons in my

head work together to compose

a beastly symphony, and I'm completely
unreliable against any minor source of
conflict, losing my mind at the sound of

incoming artillery. How many times

will I forget that I can stow away in a

tank for shelter instead of throwing
grenades at innocent bystanders?

I remember the afternoon I sat across
from a teenager and her vigilante parents
(who watches the Watchmen, indeed?),
and I was told point blank that I was as volatile
as a second civil war, prone to snapping
like a wishbone, alienating the ones I wanted
to inspire and enlighten. I replied that those
allegations were inaccurate and unfair, but
screaming, "Fake news!" at the sky isn't
enough to prevent me from dealing myself
eighty mental lashes across the back before sundown.

When I was young, I was kissed on the forehead
by ash and oil, and I was taught to believe

that a man in a Roman collar could pardon me

for my transgressions. In today's society, I'm
convinced that, if I'm not careful, I could end up
with a price on my head. If I air out my grievances,

I risk hammering 95 of them onto the door

of dissenters who are willing to draw

and quarter me with my own nails. But no one
else is actually condemning me, so why

do I count my sins like bricks in a tornado-

ravaged house? My anxiety insists that I ought
to be abandoned in the wreckage, left for dead,
picked apart by bored vultures who couldn't find
a better carcass. I know - that is so fucking morbid.
But my arbitrary standards force me to submerge
my hands in molten lava and somehow not sacrifice
my fingers to the heat. I sing mea culpa to the stars,

and they're not even listening; they're too busy
being born and dying millions of years before
sending me the message. Almost half a decade ago,
I cut off someone who claimed he was drowning
because he wanted to pull me down with

him. I resorted to the flare and the life jacket,

and I turned my back before he could grab
my bent and bruised wrist. My guilt complex

is constructed from the severed rope synapses
of my self-worth, and I refuse myself the chance at

rebirth. We cannot raise phoenixes if we believe

that once they die, there is no redemption from

the ashes. Perhaps the worst thing I've done is
forbid myself from being imperfect. Maybe because
I think the world expects silver from me instead of
tin. Maybe because I think the world stops its spin

to judge my every shake and quiver. Maybe

because the world moves on with or without

my urge to be forgiven, and I am left staring

at a cross holding up a man I don't believe in

anymore, and there's no possibility for holy water

to cleanse the fumes of my evaporating soul,
and I don't see myself ever being absolved
by anyone else but me.