34 Years Later
I will not calm down. I will not
be reasonable. I will not lower my volume
or stay seated because you can’t stand
the noise. My emotional labor is measured
in decibels and tiny footprints smeared with time.
I spent three decades in a box
the size of a whisper. Every night I binged
on razor blades and purged a thousand words
in font so small they disappeared by morning.
A decade later, I remember: metal
tastes like blood, an orphan’s tiny hands
hold the heat of a hundred
shaken snow globes, and lips
are steel guitar strings tuned too tight
to be plucked. Once I rationalized
so hard I burst an eardrum.
Now I hear the echo of my own heart beating.