My Masquerade
My anger exists like
Bigfoot:
a mythical, threatening
creature
supposedly living in my darkened recesses.
I swear she exists,
although few believe
me,
my memories of her are grainy
photographs
with questionable
shapes and strange footprints,
my anger
looks better when she
dresses like Anxiety.
Anxiety looks undeniably better at any party -
will come out into the light in fancy dresses,
make-up and good shoes,
Anger
wears masks like Fear. Like Tired,
like Retreat and Self-doubt,
Anger has only ever
looked like smiling anyway.
Like "you will
apologize."
Like "you will
mean it."
Like "this was
only ever because of you,"
like fists that never
quite make contact with skin,
like broken doors,
like objects thrown,
like stone cold voices,
my anger only knows
how to bury herself
inward.
She wraps herself in
the folds of my skin
to be in the only place
she has found understanding,
to be in the only place
she has found herself
comforted.
My mind obsesses about
forgiveness
before she even knows
why -
like grieving without
tears,
like casting your body
before you know
what's broken,
I wear forgiveness like
a song.
I only know half the
words,
but sing it anyway,
humming the rest like
mystery,
like too-small skinny
jeans,
like undiagnosed heart
murmur
it lives just under the
surface
squeezing my flesh
like the tourniquet I wear as a fashion statement,
anger masquerades so
easily
as all the things she's
not.
I wonder
how it is that I ended
here.
How this is the song I
came to learn and
where I learn the rest
because
this song is the record
player set to my fingertip.
The grooves read like
harmony set
before the melody is
written -
anger
is the scratches and
scars the needle learns to skip over
and keep right on
playing.
I keep right on playing
because all I've ever
learned
is that scratches
turn slowly into scars
and healing comes
faster
if you don't bother the
wound.
Good start.
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