Rainy Thoughts

I love the rainy days
I like them for reading with the window open
I like them for walking on sidewalks,
Splishing through puddles.
I like the way people smile at each other
And hold open doors.
It’s like everyone is carrying kittens
Under their raincoats.
Wait, that bulge isn’t a kitten,
It’s a gun!
Holy shit! I’m
Running out of analogies
To explain how the world works.

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My First Blood

They told me about the blood.

They said when I bled,

A woman I would become

Woman! Mature, Seductive, Wise!

They did not tell me about the pain,

The twisting in my gut,

The knives in my abdomen,

Stabbing straight through,

To my lower back.

They did not tell me about the smell

Heavy, rotten, cloying,

That follows me

And I glance about,

Worried that someone might smell

My shame.

They did not tell me

About scrubbing stains in the sink

Until my hands were numb

They did not talk about

The sudden

Explosion of pus filled bumps

On my face, my back.

They did not tell me

That I would lie alone

In my bed crying

Without knowing why.

No one told me

That to be a woman, in other’s eyes

Was to be weak

And irrational

To have my words doubted

On the grounds of my

Young hormones.

Is this what it means

To be a woman? Tied

To my bed, bleeding.

Is being a woman

Suffering?

I want to pull myself free of the blood,

But it’s still a part of me.

They will never separate us

So why should I?

Perhaps I should accept the blood

Accept it as my heritage

Rise up a goddess

With blood between my legs.

I am woman watch me bleed.

On the Inside

It’s easy, when your on the outside looking in, to define emotion, label it, and kid ourselves we know what it is. But when it is you tossed in the midst of a storm, it’s hard to put a name to it. It’s hard to describe, but I want to try it, because that is how writer’s get a grasp on things. Besides, I want someone, somewhere to understand what I’m going through.

I call it depression or anxiety. I’ve never been to psychiatrist, I have no idea if there is anything “wrong” with me. It just hits me, bolt out of the blue, a convoluted mixing pot of truly horrible emotions. I feel myself pulsing with a dark energy that I just can’t let it out. I feel the world so deeply, but am unable to express what I feel. I look around at my so called friends and see them all raised on a weak broth of shallow  comedy. They have not an original thought. All that matters to them is the next laugh.

I can’t talk to any one of them. They wouldn’t understand, they might laugh. Or worse, they’d pretend understanding, nod sagely and rattle off some second hand notion. Everything is one big fucking joke. There’s a hatred, a disgust for this shallowness, a hollowness so pervasive it affects even me. Who the fuck am I? I’m brain chemistry and surplus repression. I’m part of this pointless joke.

There’s a yearning for something better. To be who I am, to know who that is. To have someone untainted by the Joke. An artist’s soul, a philosopher’s eye. I long for proximity. My head resting against a neck or a chest, a hand in mine, breathing. And most importantly, someone to talk to.