“… what doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.” — 19th century German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche
I’ve been told
I wear my emotions on my sleeve
for anyone to see,
but why should I hide
my scars
my baggage
my vulnerabilities
or block my strength?
We live in a bubble, after all.
So it might be strange for you to hear
I toss myself in with the dirty laundry
like a crimson crumpled curtain
that hides what I don’t want you to see
on days I just want to be plain me,
unsweetened, unfastened, unpainted,
like a speck of dust,
circling the sun until I crash and burn,
unfolding the dark.
I try to reconcile the contradictions,
all the blurred lines between life and death.
Somehow, it feels safer in the shadows
where I can spread my wings
and be transformed
not into a butterfly
but maybe a scorpion or a python,
just to equalize
or devour
my irrational fears.
I’m inclined to write
until the stench of ambivalence
eclipses the brain,
and splotches of ink
drench the empty page.
But even here,
in this altered state,
it’s probably logical,
even rational
to fear collateral damage.
I hide in the margins,
seeking refuge,
relying on plan b,
and when I’m done
I try to leave no trace behind,
just some dust,
clumps of moonlight
and crumpled pieces
of me.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
