A Slam Poem by a Millennial

There are people with names and faces and friends and places 

that shout words at me, vaguely in my vicinity 

because I am a dandelion seed still wavering between realms, 

caught in the wind, unable to land, 

like a plastic bag entangled in a branch,

for I am oblivious to where I belong, 

perhaps there isn’t a place for me yet,

and I’m okay with that,

I know, that the world owes me nothing, 

but you shout words at the vagabonding void I am,

give my friends and I a name that we didn’t choose,

if people agree that words are guns, you might as well have called us gooks.

You shake your head and waggle your finger 

like a big god smoking a pipe,

calling me,

smart-ass slack fuck

politically correct entitled shit 

that kills everything from the cereal industry to the White House budget 

Oh, and don’t forget, 

netflix-binging technology possessed

orange face socially awkward bitch

spineless selfie-taking sensitive liberals,

that always feel the need to express themselves 

financially dependent whining feminists with nose piercings, 

anal-bleaching uncultured greedy sluts.

That’s what I hear when you call me a millennial,

I no longer feel human,

because dear people with names and faces and friends and places,

that is what you told me I am, 

but I was the earth that admires the sun so much,

it spends its life circling around it, 

I begged you for your wisdom and you slapped me with greedy,

I spoke, and you struck me with know-it-all,

I wrote a poem on my phone and you kicked me with dependent,

I told you how I felt and you right hooked me with spineless, 

I have never felt so unloved,

and yes, perhaps, you will say, 

then pull up your bootstraps

put on your big girl pants

get on with your life,

but you promised me when you gave birth to me,

or gave birth to my parents who gave birth to me,

that you would love me, 

and I have never felt so unloved.

I have never felt so unloved, and you’ll say, 

good, because life’s not fair,

yes, life isn’t fair, but that doesn’t mean the people don’t have to try and be,

but instead you drive me to wrest out my hair,

urge me to a self-hate where I wish to carve the skin off my bones,

douse it in lighter fluid, and set fire to myself. 

For when these people with names and faces and friends and places,

who I thought were going to guide me to the world,

when they generalize one girl to be just like her peers, just like her age,

you might as well call a goldfish, 

a shark.

I am not my age, I am not the world. 

For right now,

I’m just trying to swing my legs over the side of the bed,

drop my feet to the cold unforgiving floor

and stand, 

because you flanked me and struck me when I was still a bloom,

you killed an unarmed child with your words,

and made a joke of it that you pass around like a side salad at the dinner table,

I hope you know I’ve never felt so unloved.

Perhaps you did expect more from me,

but the only thing I regret,

after all the names you titled me,

after all the articles, and posts, and jokes 

and the anachronistic feeling of not deserving to exist,

inflicted by 

the people with names and faces and people and places,

more than it was inflicted by the world, 

is that I wish I only knew, 

that I shouldn’t have expected so much from you. 

-anna sluder