Downward spirals, rabbit holes, rock bottoms, trap doors, and pits of despair—
how much more is there to falling,
and, more importantly, why have I been tasked with the geology of heart-sinking feelings?
Who’s commandeered my brain and, more importantly, when can I get it back?
Why are there tumbleweeds in my vicinity and, more importantly, why do they show up after every dark joke I make?
What’s with the blank stares and the squirms?
I have had my fill of hollow verbiage shoving guilt down my eardrums,
unfounded accusations attempting a breaking and entering.
I have had a lifetime of sharpening my ears
to the deceits of honeyed words
and the guilt-tripping of shoulds,
so I will guard what is left of my sanity like a cornered cat.
Who died and made you kings?
High horses you got there,
would be a shame if I made you get off them,
unceremoniously at that.
I put on quite the show, don’t I?
Too bad the proceeds don’t go to me,
my pockets are running on empty,
though I do possess some entertainment value,
all for viewers I abhor.
Grief tourists going on with their day after throwing pity and pennies my way,
while life made me a permanent resident of grief.
I have a new postal code I keep mixing up on the letters crying for help,
so they never get delivered
and I am left to wander the great waste of loneliness,
posing for a photo here and there,
like a rare species stranded in sorrow which no one else understands,
like a freak show warranting acknowledgement for a few seconds,
before they thank the heavens they get to leave this behind and resume their existence,
their identity never to be redefined by such harrowing events.
Why do they get to throw platitudes my way and leave this no man’s land,
while
I’m
stuck
paying the eternal mortgage for a fixer-upper, on a land I never claimed as my own?
Professional taunters,
getting close enough for a satisfactory photo they can use to boast about as a bucket-list experience,
but never close enough to offer sincere comfort or consolation, however brief or temporarily bothersome.
Who has turned me into so many animals?
Cornered cat ready to scratch,
raging bull in a china shop,
octopus juggling life verdicts,
anomaly in the fabric of society,
all the while being expected to put on a show of strength, acceptance, gratitude and dignity—
for what other purpose does suffering have but to be inspirational in the way it is dealt with,
otherwise it should be experienced in silence,
so as not to disturb the oh-so-delicate balance of social expectations?
I hear your accusations loud and clear,
and I raise you a basic concept: empathy.
How are these the only socially acceptable responses to grief?
be inspirational, or silent
I will be neither,
for death awaits,
sent its messenger 62 years too early by my rough calculations,
giving me a heads-up—so generous of her, didn’t know she fancied truisms!—and ruining my hard-earned serenity.
So, I will make sure to go unwillingly,
kicking and screaming,
foaming at the mouth,
claws out.
I am the animal younger me would have felt safe petting,
and safety is worth more than a thousand accomplished dreams.
I was never promised the moon,
nor have I ever tried to reach for the stars,
so this time around, I will settle for a supernova—
celestial postal code in the making.
Da Capo al Poetry 