You peaked early, clever girl.
Made it big, knocked ’em dead.
Made you a household name,
the in-thing for a hot second.
They made a fuss over your brains,
said you were a problem-solver.
A go-getter. You made the plans,
cut through the obstacles, turned
But you cratered
harder than Chicxulub.
(Was it impostor syndrome?)
(Aren’t you really Utahraptor?)
(Were they ashamed of your plumage?)
They wanted bigger, flashier, sharper.
This one’s smarter than Einstein,
deadlier than a coal-plant.
You did gig work for a while.
Crashed on your cousin’s couch
out in Bakersfield. Nice guy, sabertooth.
Best job you had, on paper,
was barista. Health insurance,
paid vacations. The pay was shit,
but you made it happen, for a bit.
But you’re a wild fucking Cretaceous thing,
a bloody frolic with your feathered sisters thing.
Cretaceous days didn’t shape you into a barista.
Claws weren’t meant for an iced venti.
Or door handles, for that matter.
You’re a burnout, yeah.
But you’re trying, still.
At least your species didn’t
invent goddamn capitalism.
Rick Hollon (they/them or fey/fem) is an intersex, nonbinary, bi/queer writer, editor, parent, and all around dino nerd. Feir work has appeared or is forthcoming in perhappened, Whale Road Review, Moss Puppy Mag, and other small-press publications. Find them on Twitter at SailorTheia.