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.