Numerophile [Rob]

I don't even know if that's a real word, but it is now.

Even when you had me, it was always the numbers.

You loved numbers.

You loved the money in my pocket,

printed with ones, fives, tens, twenties.

You loved the way my fingers

flip-flip folded the bills when I dropped them

into your basket of good intentions.

Good things, you said.

Good reasons.

You loved when I spoke so fast

that numbers upon numbers

in the thousands, hundreds, maybe millions

would drown the room in everything that

sounded just about right.

People thought they deciphered my messages,

but I don't remember if I had a message

to begin with.

You loved when both--not one, it had to be both--

my hands were raised so high that you could

count all ten of my fingers, which were always

distinct against gray and purple lights

that must have somehow intensified the bonds

taking place in all corners of the room.

It had to be both, had to be all ten.

You loved it when I brought all those people with me.

One girl, brought two more, maybe five total?

Each one with ten fingers, ten toes wiggling

in their shoes, nervous I'm sure.

Each body of twenty equaled another one tic you could add

to that resume you carry somewhere, pencil marks erased

over and over and over again.

You loved it when the room we all were crammed in

filled up so fast and so full of twenties, thirties, sixties

that you looked good--you looked real good.

But numbers don't have personalities, do they?

Numbers don't have names, or hearts,

or regrets that haunt them every time 

the purples-and-grays disappeared.

You hated it when those numbers

got flushed down the drain because water veils

don't hide people forever.

And you would make up pretty excuses to bring

those numbers back--good intentions, good reasons!

Vivd blues, greens, reds, and even smoke screens!

Anything to keep those numbers in the net.

You don't attach names to numbers, you

simply call them by their pet names--"Eight", "Ten", "Forty".

Seductively, quietly, you echo their existences in your sleep

and don't seem to care that Seventy is in the bathroom

throwing up her guts to guts skinny, or Ninety is thinking

about raping Seven--maybe Thirteen--when you're not looking.

Because why would you?

I was probably Ninety Three--well, wait--

I was Ninety Three, because that's all you talked about

to me/us/them when we cam before you, minds

malleable, waiting, patient to learn about the letters

in the Book that you told us you loved so much

but the truth of the matter was that you loved that

the chapters were divided by--you guessed it--numbers.

So why the hell was I so surprised that when I came to you

with a broken heart and black hands

you turned me away and sided with Thirty Something

because he kept bringing other numbers with him?

Why was it then that I thought "Hey maybe I've earned

some kind of face-to-name ratio" with you?

Why did I think then that I mattered?

And I mean, it didn't matter to you

that Thirty Something told me I should go

nullify my existence with a handful of Tylenol

because Thirty Something brought Ninety Five

and in turn, Ninety Five brought Ninety Six

and Ninety Six might bring Ninety Seven, which might

get you a spot in the next edition of the morning newspaper for

"Most Outstanding Citizen" or whatever the adults call it these days.

So Thirty Something feels so good about himself

that you don't seem to mind that he got Forty to say

I was crazy and all that, that my death wouldn't be his problem,

because the funny thing about that is how Forty worships Thirty Something

so he'll gladly take Ninety Three out of the equation to get closer to him

because Ninety Three never should have gotten brave and thought

she had a name--I never should have thought I had a name.

And y'know? It gets me so angry that I bite my tongue

because I see your fishing for numbers every time I log on Facebook,

and I can't take you off because the calculator in me keeps thinking

"what if he finally solves the problem? what if he figures out

that f(x) won't always equal y, and that sometimes

and input-output scenario won't always happen?"

It's an irrational function, which is probably why you don't miss me.

I don't want to be missed, because I don't mind

waking up every morning and looking at myself in the mirror

not thinking "I'm not worthy, I'm not loved"

because that's what your numbers do to me, and I've always

hated math and you know that and I know that

so what would even be the point of missing anyone anyway?

Correct: there is no point. So I don't do it.

I just greatly fear for One Hundred, because he or she

are gonna be your milestone, and you're gonna make them

so high off of the fact that they are the sign of "show your work"

that they'll make themselves think they're home when

really, if you measure it out right,

they're just as replaceable as I was.

And I hate being replaced.

And I absolutely seethe at the fact that I just wasted

precious battery life, precious ink, precious life force

in taking a beautiful language and twisting it with my contempt

and hurt because this language is the last gift God gave me

and I don't want you taking that away from me!

But I have to, because this is "constructive", a better outlet

than writing your personally, because you'd probably spend

more time counting how many words--scratch that--

how many letters in each word I wrote because you want to see

if you've caught more ones and threes and fives

than I have in my little paragraph on fours and eights.

My pen is my pen and my words and my words

and this is the last time I'll use it

to give praise to a "man of God"

who's more likely to worship his algebra textbook

than the man who died to save the numbers

he so carelessly sifts through, so long as the media

gives him some kind of notice.

Author's Note

Dedicated to a certain "Pastor" of a certain "church"...if you can even call it that.

Reviews

[I Shred This Cabbage]

sometimes Satan comes as a man of peace... but we shouldn't don't believe in heroes and we shouldn't look for truth from sources unworthy of the name

[Emunah June.]

Amen to that. This man fooled me, and he's currently fooling a boatload of people. I'm ashamed it took me so long to realize it.

[Angie Diane♥&hea..]

This was a great poem. I could feel the anger at him. Sometimes a "man of God" can't be trusted. They will do something that will hurt others and make them feel bad about themselves. Let them get hurt and expect them to still have the same respect. I thought this was deep. You did a really great job. Thanks for sharing. :)