screaming underwater

The verses of how everyone treats her like she's
mad
psychotic
schizophrenic
deranged
etched between endless lines of
we've finally granted your request, finally respected what you're okay with
(although we only signed the consensus in faux-formal calligraphy
purely to make you shut up)
and I've been listening to taylor swift when you're mad
and taylor swift when you're sad
on loop in the shower, faucets and speakers and lungs booming, blasting
breaking.
Every time,
I've crumbled before I even know
I'm on the floor.
be happy now. oh, and
maybe
we should've mentioned that now,
we'll throw another at you, another cir-cum-stance you
are
not
ok
with
because we already lended enough of our polished, pale hands
for your sake, for your prayers.
So that's it?
we're over the first bridge, and is there anything I can do
while you sit back and pretend there aren't a thousand more?
I'm screaming, but to your selective ears, revised:
I'm screaming, underwater.
So that's it?
There's my
get out of jail free pass.
There's my
Golden Ticket.
There's my
chance to Get My Way.
There's my
get out of jail free pass.
I didn't realize
listening was an expiratory affair.
You didn't realize
my escape of jail,
even if it was a mere one-time use,
wasn't so free after all.