Pain, Love, Depression, and Joy

 

“Everyone has written about pain; what makes it unique to you?”

My pain is early, unbeknownst to my psyche until I
became misinformed and mislead through others ambivalence.

My pain levitates in the middle of two races.
My pain is centuries long, my pain is past skin, hair, features, curves.
My pain flickers and solidifies.

My pain is antagonized by both men and women.
Men continue to to take from me–
pressuring me to shape to their ideals,
to spread my soft, thick thighs
to their ready, thin lips.
Women’s words, barbed and poisonous, trickle into
my blood–coursing through my body until I have become
leadened with the words, until the words spit out of me–
replacing my pleasantry with fermented hate.

 

“Everyone has written about Love; what makes it unique to you?”

Love is the hardest feeling–element–soul-searching entity– to describe
because it transcends through time and common sense; a serpent sneaking
up on you when you least expect; simultaneously both cure and hamarita.
It robs your breath as swiftly as it breathes fresh air into your lungs.
Love can bathe you in a beam of light that can cure the most harmful insecurities
and give you such herculean strength.

But Love has a way of ripping you apart until you are nothing but pain amplified.
Love can be the Devil in disguise in false skin,
his Evil ways tricking you, hurting you in unimaginable ways.

Even when Love has drained us, we crave the feeling again and again.
We write, sing, bleed, kiss, fuck, cry, fight, yell, because Love is a living
thing that can never stay silent.

 

“Everyone has written about depression; what makes is it unique to you?”

Self-doubt is like an assassin in the night. Stealing into your home, your life,
your sanity, until it worms and burrorws its way until it latches on with great,
deadly talons. Depression eats away at you like a parasite–taking, taking, taking
until you are left with a hollowed shell.

My depression is unique in a way where it is either very apparent or hides away
until it’s ready to strike at my weakest.

A bleak cloud, a black, dirty pressing entity that hovers over me, bearing down
on me with its evilness, pushing down my proud shoulders until my back is bowed
and I am felled.

Sapping life from my fingertips, my toes, my full, rounded breasts, my ears ringing
from the hushed loneliness, my tearducks raw–an open wound that refuses to falter.

My depression is unapologetic, and it is an awakening that I cherish.

 

“Everyone has written about joy; what makes it unique to you?”

bubbling. weight-less. drifting. hurried whispers. gentle murmuring. sudden. cacophonous.

a forever sunrise that kisses the beach, my warmth ,
a rushing wave tickling my lips.
my words are my own, my writing
truly understood by none but me!

My joy is infectious–it spreads quick and unwelcome and
blissfully unapologetic.

It trickles like an August rain– a sudden  zipper opening
in the sky, unleashing a rage that echoes worldwide.

My joy is the rush of wetness that lingers, drenches
and saturates the skin with its heaviness. It sticks to the flesh–
it lingers in your clothes,
a dewy residue that carries a stench that stains your tongue
and curls your nose.

My joy is transparent, my smiles are free,
my laugh is loud and obnoxious
and my joy is here to stay.