Steam fills my lungs as I powder punch
the words
over and again into my head.

I want to say something
poetic, but
not intrusive.
Something honest,
but not painful.

Realizing I can’t,
my body adjusts to my building pressure.

Lizards and tigers
dueling and fucking
and killing and kissing
are caught in the tangled webs
that Illness has woven.

Tyrants and tramps team together
to alliterate some ugly words
and slap me dead in the face with
a colander once filled with sympathy.
Just throw it away,
you won’t even pretend.

Past and past ago
don’t torment me,
because I am moving up up up and away
from it.
Moving on.
What beautiful words.

Bring them up
and if you do, I will push them into the shallow pool
where they hit their heads
and become the dead weight they are.

Bricks for me to demolish with my newly
found crane of self-empowerment and confidence.
I won’t cry anymore.
Not over that and not over this.

I want to wear my sister’s watercolored corn on my shoulder
and remember my father in good light.