I wrote this one on my birthday this year, as it’s always a day of looking inward for me. A day of reflection.
What have I accomplished over the last 365 days? What am I proud of? What about myself am I still working on?
Are there parts of me that I’m willing to change? Where can I grow?
Lately, those questions have led somewhere harder than they used to.
I’m open to self-criticism. Not everyone is.
You consume rage
like lemonade
Sweetness sinking
deep under your
skin
Spitting back
sour strands of
hatred
Lips puckered in
unquenchable fury
over force fed
misunderstandings
And yet-
there’s grief.
Not in spite of
but because of
the performative
hatred
which has seeped
into your bones
through the veins
of desperation
Being right
now more crucial
than being
correct
My wounds fill with
discouragement
for the world you’d
gleefully leave
for my children
Rotting
no longer from the
inside
but straight through
the once tender
flesh
What you fail
to see
each time the
cycle repeats
is that rot becomes
decay
which gives
way
for earth
to grow
anew.