Like It Matters
Like it even matters
what we've done
deserved or borrowed
Whether we've completely
paid our dues
down to every technicality
Whether we always
told the truth
or forgot to tell
the agreed upon lies
Whether we sang or wrote
If we could play or
if we could fight
If we could stomach whatever
they could fit
on their shovels
Whether we spat
in their faces
or kissed their erections
Like it matters who stayed
or who died or who left
or how much we cared
when fate simply didn't
Whether hearts get broken
or fixed when they're failing
or transplanted to patients
who can't understand a
damn thing they inherit
Whether we say “damn” or
“damnable” or “fuck”
or condescend and speak
to our peers in baby talk
Like it matters if the world dies
in one orgasmic drunken crash
Like we have anything
to depend on
if life depends on us
to save its ass
This poem trembles with the fear that nothing we do will endure.
It names our truths and lies, our songs and fights, as fragile offerings.
Even broken hearts or transplanted ones are seen as vulnerable inheritances.
The language of anger or tenderness “damn” or “fuck” is still a human cry.
Behind the cynicism lies a longing for meaning, a plea not to be erased.
The world may collapse in chaos, yet the poem insists on remembering our care.
Every gesture, however futile, carries the weight of our shared humanity.
It is despair, yes, but also confession: we loved, we tried, we resisted.
Life may not depend on us, but we depend on life to keep reaching.
And in that reaching, even fragile, we remain unmistakably human.
Also I used "their" when it should be "there". I'm fired from the internet. And there's no edit button, so I can't eliminate the evidence of my typos like I usually do. You may laugh and scorn me, I deserve it.