By Gila Efrat
I’m sick of writing philosophies,
draining thoughts heavy in hypocrisies.
I’m craving some action;
a mess, some spray paint
splattered across concrete,
some funk for music:
lyrics that scream recklessness and grubby feelings at 1 in the morning.
I’m sick of trying to find what prepositions work best;
I want to rip off the band-aid –
rip off your piece for a dress.
I’m sick of desire;
I want more;
I’m full of it, yes!
I want it to be tangible instead of daydreaming daily.
I’m sick of walking in my neighbourhood, replacing experiences for certain sounds to fill up spaces.
I’m sick of fantasy;
I want it now
with less distress;
I want to not have time to look for the song which fits best,
I want to be unprepared.
I’m sick of this anxiety
constantly hovering over me.
I’m sick of your demands of me;
people-pleasing and expectations don’t fly with me.
I’m sick of this language;
colloquialisms and formal tone, and what of my own standards?
I’m sick of try-hards and die-hards and repetition.
I need something else, something lacking meaning.
I’m sick of being deep;
these people, so shallow, every time we meet.
It’s enough to keep up with,
all the people I’ve fucked with –
all the men who can’t say my name.
You would think that I care
for a more sincere intention,
but darling, I indulge in relieving tension.
What I crave is not of such intellect.
I’m fine on my own –
not needing that type of intimate.
About the poet:
Gila Efrat is an 18-year-old, non-binary poet from Noordhoek. They are passionate about Progressive Judaism, social justice, film and music.
Image: Amy Simons