Our Bodies Don’t Care
I can't feel my white knuckles.
I have never even seen them before.
I am told that they must have been there in the prelude to my sadness.
The prelude to my wild woman irrationality. My outbursts. My swear jar overflowing.
Sometimes it's looks like anger, but it's always sad underneath.
When you scratch your nail along it
you can peer in and see the blue scratches underneath.
Sad for all the times I shove myself aside.
Sad that I am trying my hardest and it's never enough.
Sad that I choose to hold on, instead of letting it just be.
Sad that I can't change the eternity sweeping fiercely and assuredly towards my own kin.
Sad that I can't find gratitude atop my throne.
Sad. Sadness. Sadger. Sanger. Anger. Angry. Angrier. It's all the same.
Fuck with the letters and you will see it too.
It's just a name we give it. Inside our bodies don't care.
We feed it one or the other and it's all the same.
A lollipop of rage with a nugget of tears inside.
How many licks will it take to get to the centre?
How long will I keep working away at it until I let the salty tears wash my tongue.
My eyes. My face. My arms. My heart. My hands. My knuckles.
This poem was born out of a moment of frustration and resentment. The feeling was only temporary the poem became a home for all of it.
Thank you to Stacy Walyuchow for the amazing accompanying art and The Peoples Poetry Festival for bringing my poem and her art together....
Please check out Stacy's amazing collage work here
