Footsteps linger outside the door.
The person you were—an imprint in my synapses—
your specter firing between the walls.
watch the wolves they know the test
and what they don’t they sniff out the rest
Lying at the foot of grandmother’s armrest
Watching the rise and fall of her breast
Readying themselves for a feast
I can see something in his teeth
A gleam, a pearl, a bone, a key
Oh I think it might be me
I’m tired of being fucking reasonable
Of having to be calm, cool, collected
I want to be angry. I want to be mad.
I want to claim my birthright.
It has been calling to me for the longest
Through the ages from mitochondrial eve
Adam probably called her a bitch too.
I’m tired of having to smile. I’m tired of saying sorry
for things I didn’t do. I’m tired of everything.
I’m angry and I’m not allowed to be.
I must be the voice of reason.
The fucking mediator. A role I’ve taken since birth
Between two witches and a boar.
my marrow is filching
sulking towards the exit waiting to get
out. it cannot be contained. a hazard
that refuses to drain out. the color of blackness
and a fervor of grey. neither can find their way.
Originally posted here on my AllPoetry.com account