Simmering

Our task is delicate.

To simmer without boiling over.

Your simmer animates you.

Brings a heat to your cheeks.

Keeps your skin plump and dewy.

It is desire, it is lust, it is the promise of danger.

It is restraint, it is control.

It is too much.

It is biting your tongue.

It is pretending to be okay.

It is dusting off disappointment and betrayal and masking pain.

It is swallowed rage.

Simmer without boiling over.

Boiling over is hysteria.

It is manipulative.

It is devious and malicious.

It is failure.

It’s disassociation.

It is giving up and it is exploding.

It is an empty well.

—

I am simmering.

Boiling.

Bubbling.

Hot with rage.

Scalding and spitting and splashing.

I am angry at the bitter taste

Life left in my mouth.

Angry at the space

Hope carved into my heart

for reality to leave empty.

Empty like the end of the day

When you lay down alone

But for your aching back

And your aching heart

And the screams of everything you couldn’t and didn’t and aren’t.

When I wish I could beat my fists against the expansive void.

Charred and smoking where the last drop of water evaporated.

I am angry at the nature of anger

Who is vapor.

Who is a mirage.

Who at its strongest,

Lies to me

Makes me a fool

Robs me of my most precious resources

Deep breaths. Clarity. Energy. Love.

Leaves me paralyzed and vulnerable and defeated.

I am angry at the way I need to simmer.

At the debt I owe anger;

For the times I invited it in because I couldn’t stand the pain without it.

For the times it said “Enough.”

For the times it shoved me violently toward change.

For the times it held my hand and led me to courage.

—

Have you lost yourself?

In the kind of storm where the lines of up and down and East and west and then and now blur into one heavy mass,

You are defined in relation to a swirling darkness.

The words and coordinates and gestures it would take to ask for help will not come to you.

Has anger come for you then?

A bolt reveals the sky.

Its flash interrupting an infinite night.

The bass of a rolling thunder echoes lovingly,

“You deserve more.

You will not be forgotten.

It’s time to stand up and remember who the fuck you are.”

I am on my feet

And I am simmering.