Blue on Beige

Hurting yourself to hurt someone else.
The cutting of noses to spite faces.
At what age do we learn such hideous tactics?

I remember times growing up
when I'd sleep on my floor
if my mother had angered me.
The charity of the bed she'd provided
was no longer welcomed.
I'd tough it out for as long as I could
but usually wound up missing
the comforting springs of my mattress.
One time, though, I managed to sleep through
the night on the thin tan carpet.
When my mom walked in my room
to wake me for school that morning
I noticed that she couldn't look me in the eyes.
There's no delusion there that it meant
she'd been defeated, admitted being wrong
or any other such victory on my part.
It was more the fact that she recognized
my will to do my best to show her
the extent of my discontent with whatever
trivial thing we'd been bickering about.
Thankfully for my back it was a pre-pubescent phase
that I grew out of, though its replacements
proved to be more detrimental to other aspects
of my health and general well-being. I learned
instead to kiss the bottle, find a new female
strike up a match, and far worse in the worst cases--
anything it took to distract myself for long enough
with my own self-destructive tendencies to
forget whatever it was that upset me in the first place.
It reminds me of the old slapstick bit where a man
would complain of an injury to his friend and wind up
getting smacked in the face as a diversion. It's not
quite as funny when you do it to yourself.

So now before my foot enters my gaping mouth
I try to think back to those many sore hours spent
festering alone on the floor at my mother's condo.
It's no way to live, even for an unfairly labeled misanthrope.
Believe what you may; I'd rather be happy.