I am used to the ravaging of life; I can see things ripped and torn away and I continue to walk, though screaming loudly.
I know others would like me to hush; jump on the moving sidewalk of sorrow and quietly pass.
To sit with Thoreau and sip my desperation soberly in the corner of a silent bar.
Instead I chug it, slurping and belching and, when the bartender brings me a double, I toss that back, too.
I am supposed to hide my sorrows, but how can I hold anything so painful close?
Who would want to hide and cling and shelter and distract?
Swing the albatross ’round and holler, “Because of this I cannot breathe!”
Fling the stinging jellyfish away; fly it far. Smash it into the rocks.
It is enough that I must lick the hot poker of pain. I refuse, for you, to pretend it is a splinter.
I am done with muffling. I refuse to smother what would kill me.
I will kill my grief outright.
I will make you watch.
3 thoughts on “Beyond (Understanding Creon)”
Oh, Rachel. Your writing draws me into your heart. The beauty here (and, incredibly, there is beauty in all this pain) is that there is not one iota of pretending you’re fine, or down-playing the pain. It’s honest and it hurts. It hurts all of us who read it, too.