I am like a fire at night
The smoke is rising
barely visible against the black sky
But I am burning
nonetheless,
But I am burning
nonetheless,
I am burning
though this is a constant state
and is inevitable
especially by those who can find
so
so many reasons
not to like me
is it my abrupt manner of speaking
or my lack of finesse,
does my attraction to difficult conversation
put you off?
Or did I defend my children to a degree you found uncomfortable?
I don't mean to add to the list.
I do mean to ask questions you don't like.
I am on fire, even in the night.
Dark night of the soul,
come find me
(oh, there you are)
Help help, give me something else
to grab on to
right now all i have are the questions
no one likes to answer
the observations too revealing to discuss.
My penchant for finding the issue
under the topic
gets me in trouble
all the time. But I still can't help it.
I fear I became blank-slated,
formed myself in such a way
so non-offensive,
so delicately polite,
so very careful
to put how everyone else feels above
how I feel
in the moment, I say nothing.
The priority is obvious:
how you feel.
How do I feel? I will swallow it.
I will swallow it.
I will bite hard on my tongue and I'll bleed
and then swallow it.
On the day I burst open, belly full of rot and heartbreak,
and there in the form of questions take my years of silent wondering
you are overwhelmed, and I am vehemently opposed to any
more
silence.
So lie down and find rest in the beds of your former enemies
because your new enemies don't make you feel as good
as the ones you once named abuser. Lie down and sleep in peace,
but know this: I am waking up. It is too late for us, Compassion.
It is too late, Deaf Ears. You made the bed and I won't lie in it,
you made my heart beat fierce and my soul alight
with a drive toward bigger questions, sticks in the mud and
mouths that speak to the good, toes toward toes until we figure this out.
These words are not about you.
I write because I am on fire.
stunning portrait by Nacho Zaitsev