Thank you, Bittersweet
Don't hug me gently. You might
crush me into a diamond, you might
squeeze out the red-hot blood and breath and anger
that keep me whole and combustible, and
I can't take that turbulent silence, not now.
I can open my mouth and the floodgates to sing about the in- or the
-Justices of the world, and I can
feel at one with a body of three-thousand; I can
take on that power in a million storms,
a word of the pope, the president, the homeless woman,
facing the mirror everyday
but I cannot take this.
I have no problem having my soulstrings cut and crying at your dying mother, at humans treating humans as inhuman, at the
state of the union address where boys and girls become
prostitutes to feel loved,
druggies to feel good, and violent outside to express the violence within.
But tears for myself, that I cannot do
leaving those strings between my heart and my head attached
to be plucked and grabbed and pulled, stretch and release
Rinse and repeat an manhandled to the point of resilience.
So, don't hug me gently, touching my flesh. It
Shakes me apart, a 7.1 leaving parts of me pristinely standing
and other flatter than Florida roadkill--
and just like everyone else, there are countries and unclaimed
territories that suffer within me or
success differently when you hug me like that--
There are cities that crumble, caverns that collapse, pockets
of belief that rise to the top.
There are big bangs and revelations and flash floods of
tears that assassinate my desire to be alone, untame.
Then, as there was, stillness.
Touching a still pool does more than kicking the ocean, so
Don't hug me gently. Actually, maybe you should--
you might crush me into something pure and beautiful and transparent, and,
while I don't want that pressure, seeing through me right now is the
most important thing you can do.
crush me into a diamond, you might
squeeze out the red-hot blood and breath and anger
that keep me whole and combustible, and
I can't take that turbulent silence, not now.
I can open my mouth and the floodgates to sing about the in- or the
-Justices of the world, and I can
feel at one with a body of three-thousand; I can
take on that power in a million storms,
a word of the pope, the president, the homeless woman,
facing the mirror everyday
but I cannot take this.
I have no problem having my soulstrings cut and crying at your dying mother, at humans treating humans as inhuman, at the
state of the union address where boys and girls become
prostitutes to feel loved,
druggies to feel good, and violent outside to express the violence within.
But tears for myself, that I cannot do
leaving those strings between my heart and my head attached
to be plucked and grabbed and pulled, stretch and release
Rinse and repeat an manhandled to the point of resilience.
So, don't hug me gently, touching my flesh. It
Shakes me apart, a 7.1 leaving parts of me pristinely standing
and other flatter than Florida roadkill--
and just like everyone else, there are countries and unclaimed
territories that suffer within me or
success differently when you hug me like that--
There are cities that crumble, caverns that collapse, pockets
of belief that rise to the top.
There are big bangs and revelations and flash floods of
tears that assassinate my desire to be alone, untame.
Then, as there was, stillness.
Touching a still pool does more than kicking the ocean, so
Don't hug me gently. Actually, maybe you should--
you might crush me into something pure and beautiful and transparent, and,
while I don't want that pressure, seeing through me right now is the
most important thing you can do.