Raging bulls and teacups

Bulls and teacups shouldn’t be part of each other’s worlds,
It’s the natural order of things:
bulls belong on meadows,
and teacups belong in homes,
a truth as old as time.

Unless life has a say in it, and it sure did for me.
One second, I was just enjoying my new-found freedom,
mid-twenties, learning to breathe on my own,
the next, I was grappling with trying to tame rage and restlessness—
animals which cannot be contained, I have found.

One minute I have fingers and write,
the next I wake up to hooves and cannot hold a pen for the life of me.
My ears have turned to horns
and no soothing words can caress my eardrum anymore.

Good morning and welcome to your new carcass
sustained by an unwilling participant,
where you have to navigate country life and the modern.
I’m wearing a new sweater,
not wool, cotton, or polyester:
this grief hugging me tightly grows like an incessant tumor,
joining me for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,
and for every spare moment it can find
(no, not even my summer walks are a safe space anymore).

It’s bigger than me and it’s
weighing
me
d
o
w
n.
I cannot take it off, tied around my neck so tightly, the knot making me nauseous
every time I swallow back the words hiding behind my tongue,
between my teeth
like gangrenous cavities.
So, I have to let them out,
flash floods of muddy waters,
destruction in their wake.
I’m like a bull in a china shop, breaking cups and dishes with every mention of its name,
and with every turn trying to get it off my back, I smash feelings and inklings of kindness,
annoying the other shoppers.
And I know it cannot be long before
I’m swiftly removed from the premises, thrown out on the street, warned not to come back;
look at all the shards lying on the ground,
should’ve realised sooner hooves and horns don’t mix well with blue willow china and all that is delicate.

Take a chill pill,
your neuroticism is showing,
and we cannot have that.
Bulls don’t belong in shops,
so either conceal that, or learn to live like one.

…

I’ve never eaten grass,
maybe I should give that a try.

I do enjoy the countryside,
so maybe grazing on the open meadows overlooking the sea
will be just the thing for me.
I will have enough room to ruminate, and run, and rage to my heart’s content
—and do all that bulls were born to do,
out of sight and out of mind.
My horns won’t get stuck in any teacup handles,
my hooves will only trample the hard ground and nothing tender,
my storms will synch with the ones at sea,
the sweater around my neck will finally keep me warm,
and I will have the natural rhythm of life ingrained in me,
at long last.

And then, when I’ll have grown bigger than my sweater,
and the line between the sky and the sea will have turned bright orange,
I’ll have earned the right to lay claim to my life:
“Okay, maybe it’s my time to go—but can we take the scenic route on the way out?”