Everything You Thought You Wanted

Wanted


 

When you sit down with your little self

Your big ego

And submit

That everything will be alright

If you just try harder

And compromise and be grateful—

If you redraw schematics for a radically new existence

On pages well-wrapped with chaotic strands like a chrysalis

And decide that nothing previously thought was necessary

And bare existence will do you so long as it will let your hands unclench

And give your callouses a rest from holding on,

Out of the void comes the ancient toneless voice

So familiar to you you don’t notice its accent

Screaming ‘No’ with animal anger,

Aflame with disbelief and refusal

A voice so percussive it can huff and puff and blow your drawn-up happiness

To a far away land of bed-bound imaginations and drunken dreams

Then what?

Then what is the power of resolution, of trying, of well-bound self-help books

And pop psychology and well-meaning social support?

What do the pretty clothes of a novel will matter when they’re still hung off the same old broken coat stand?

When even your compromise is too expensive and drains your wallet of blood, your face of blood,

And the blood clots in your palace of blood.

All that works is fleeing from the self, denying the I inherently dying inside,

Leaving your little resolutions laying weakly in the parlour,

Dissolving into the body’s chemical mixture and adding new drugs to

Defang the innermost predator of the soul

The huntsman in your bed, tucked in and fast asleep (or just momentarily still, reflecting your gaze?)

The huntsman you can’t dare kill because you’d have to take your eyes off it first and retrieve your shoe

And what if when you look back it has moved?

I sit with myself as in an interrogation room and we both come out bloody, bruised, no wiser for information shared,

Mutual blank faces staring rudely at each other, no evidence admissible that wasn’t was netted with violence

I am the blinding light of hurt in my own eyes against a night sky dethroned of electricity

I am the heel hovering just above the head always ready, waiting on its own time to consider homicide agreeable and necessary

And the head too, the ugly thorax, unaware death is about to blanket the land from above

I am the resolution-maker, subject to the demands of my resolve and considering how to balance the fires that nibble at my being’s distant parts

I am the flood and drowning in it too

So what do I do when I sit down with my little self and say “let yourself be happy” and the voice denies me from the abyss?

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