There is a metallic fury painted on the inside of my vessels. Reflecting rage, and yes, hate; a mirror for cataclysm, ages old. I entered this world small, and soft, timid, and subdued. A talker, a dreamer, I knew I was “cute.” We groom kids so, and we pet their quietness with our love.
And I was not able to shut up enough. I cried, loudly and often. I moved that which would harm me out–my sadness, my overwhelm, with my wailing. Irritation, to the neurons of others, it’s true. A bleating, naked calf. Taller day by day, shame shunted drop by drop, I did not make a choice.
I found myself entranced, walking toward the suffering of others, and into it, and through it, and I learned–walk into the suffering of others and ready yourself for a punch, a slight, a meanness observable, though not by the one who wields it; but stand your ground, and block the next, with a warm hand, a firm eye, what then? And twice removed, the watchers scoff, and think you are naive.
It is all a mirage, a tincture too easy to swallow, a piece of story wrapped in gelatin and made palatable. “Turn away, look on me,” sirens sing–“for I am wise and there is no need to touch the face of woe.” Validate the upper hand, the noble isolate, the hand of the scoffer on high, who paints his, or her, lips, and eyes, with the sparkling, dense fury of those who will not bow, will not concede?
I will not leave this ring. The suffering of others is not mine, and no longer daunting to face. The anger, a meanness cast, is not mine. It whizzes past my head, I dodge it. If you kill me, a million seeds of furious love burst free from this mortal frame, for love pays its debts. Your needs for me to sit, stay, or dance, are not mine. Here, once small, then painted in fury, and now forged into love, I stay.
