I think,
I might feel things a little too deeply.
Emotions too complicated for my lack of eloquence to be named.
They take root in my chest, and there, they rot.
And sometimes,
Sometimes it gets a little too hard to breathe.

I think,
It is always for the wrong things I feel.

A restaurant running out of a dumpling I wanted to buy….
Might have elicited more grief from me,
Than the sight of a lifeless child in a grieving mother’s arms;

Wearing a yellow shirt under clean blankets….
Might have made me happier,
Than watching over a dear friend crying in her hard-fought graduation dress;

I have cried more
Over the death of a humanlike character formed by artificially created lines and colors,
Than the death of a human being of real flesh and blood.

Can a poet
Who feels too much
Yet doesn’t feel enough–
Even be called a poet,
In her own right?

And yet,
These feelings,
Inconsequential as they may be:
They blossom in my heart like a crescendo,
Leaving burns in the wake of their fiery cry for my attention;
Beyond a request–
It is a demand.
A demand to be soothed by wandering thoughts,
Or wandering hands.
By escapist words stamped on paper like a curse.

Until the ache evaporates into the wind.

I am afraid.

Afraid of my emotions not catching up to me when I need them most,
When other people need me to need them most;
(When the only comfort that can sate them is the comfort brought by another person’s suffering.)

That one day,
I would come home to a horizon of blood,
To mangled bodies on the stairs and a gruesome stench in the air;
And I am afraid
That the most I could do,
Is stare.

That one day,
I would receive the phone call from the unknown number,
About my friend, who I never doubted would be around until the rooster perches on my grave,
And the life abruptly ended by the marriage of alcohol and steering wheels;
And I am afraid
That the most I could do,
Is end the call.

That one day,
I would be threatened by a gun to the head,
Over a phone and a wallet with the few pieces of coins I needed to make the trip back;
And I am afraid
That the most I could do,
Is look the person in the eye,
And tell them to drive the bullet home.

Actually, no.
I am not afraid.
The most I can conjure,
Is concern.

And that,
I think,
is pretty concerning in its own right.

Don’t you think?

// I tried to fix myself once.
In lieu of nothingness,
I forced myself to laugh a little too hard,
Cry a little too hard,
Feel, significantly a little too hard.
But I think
I might have broken myself,
More than I have fixed it?

– “What Do You Call a Poet Who Can’t Feel (Enough)?”



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