It shape-shifts and leaves me curious,
Bleeds me and leaves me dry.
Desperate for an answer
To a question I have yet to inquire.
It comes home to my burdened mind.
But escapes without a sound,
Without a word,
Without a conscious thought
As to why it made such a labored journey
For someone so unworthy:
It comes the way a parent
Maybe, or never.
In essence, it is a child.
Not just any child, though:
It was produced
By a different kind of passion
Than what mankind labels ‘normal’.
I cannot name it,
For it is without face,
(That is, to the stranger’s eye.)
I cannot coddle it,
Yet I manage to
Lovingly hand it
Just what its beating red heart desires
And play games with it
That will never, ever title me victor.
It has not one voice,
But tens of thousands
That scream because no one
Will ever really, truly listen.
It breaks my own heart
To watch such beautiful potential
Nothing more than fire,
Burning and burning
Until the ashes have burnt themselves out,
Until the embers have been smothered black,
Just waiting for the phoenix to come
And cry healing tears into the wounds
Of helplessness and redemption.
I know that the bird must eventually die
And fall back into the ashes,
Where it will decay and spawn
Over an unknown time
Into yet another fire:
Another toy for the child to play with.
What does it want?
What does my child NEED?!
I try to love it the best I can,
But it is nearly impossible
When I also require love for myself.
To you, my child is Anger
Or even Bondage.
It is a brat of a child,
Taking from everyone
All the time
And giving it all back
In a box wrapped with emotion
And a bow tied with ‘unreasonable’.
It isn’t lashing, (the way people see it):
It just wants to be heard,
And it takes time
To make it speak.
Maybe it IS a brat,
But that brat is mine, and mine alone.
You may feed it,
You may beat it,
But only I seem to be able to heal it.
It is I who tears out the stitches from its flesh
And sews it back up,
Only so it can rip itself apart again.
It is I who tends
To the hearts it throws and shatters
Like sparkling red glass
Onto the dirty floors of poverty.
You don’t know how it feels
To listen as people,
(Those God damned outsiders!),
Look at your child
In disgust and call it
But what is overreaction when
The reactor merely addresses the
Onslaught in one foul swoop,
Unlike the other ‘normal’ reactors,
Who kill their birds
One at a time?
Yes, I am tired.
I am sick of this child.
I became a mother
Long before my time,
Long before my current age of sixteen.
Sometimes I envision
Watching as she slowly fades from my essence
Into a course of time and coldness.
But I am too weak to do such a thing
Probably resulting from her hold on my throat,
A throat that is home
To inaudible vocal chords
That fails to resound when summoned by their master.
Anger loves me,
I think, at least sometimes.
She doesn’t always come through for herself,
And for that,
I am grateful.
But this brat is my lifelong companion,
Sleeping within me,
Waking within me,
And even dying within me.
Where I go,
She sits beside me.
Who I am,
She brings out
The other side of me:
The demon within.
I may be grateful for her love,
But while Anger may surprise you,
Her sibling Gratitude
Will only carry you
As far as you need to go…