Dead Meat


In rage,
I imagine the suffocation of
a bull, in clear plastic. Layers, and
layers of clear plastic.
It can fight. It can call.
But it’s strength will be it’s death.
It will die.
It’s how I feel, and the image I rewind
and pause like an old movie, when I feel this way.
Pounding heart.
Chest heaving, mutant like.
Gnarly grumbled warnings,
more for the winds that
try to calm me, than for anyone
or anything else.
Burning with each emotion,
each flash of fluorescent shame
jabbing at my me. Relentless.
Guilt. Remorse. Loathing that
only more loathing can swallow.
Gulps of tortured panic.
My shame is that I don’t know
how to mix kindness with strength.
My strength is my Achilles heel.
My words, and the quietly lethal
potency that lie behind
the various faces I own,
I don’t get to wear on my sleeve;
that venomous snake
is not one you leave
out on the coffee table.
For show.
For kicks.
For giggles.
That truth is not one that ‘love’ can handle.
So we try to be kind.
And we smile.
And we quietly,
in rage.

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