‘It’s just sitting there, right there’,
I say, gesticulating to some point near
my sternum and between my breasts.
‘It’s an anger that feels luke warm,
but infuriating all the same.
It catches my words, and as soon as
I feel I’ve caught my breath, I’ve nothing
left to say’.
Silence hangs in the air, choking us,
the pain still lingers, where my finger
crashed into flesh and bone, where
nail struck bone, nail struck bone,
nail struck bone, over and over again.
There is no penance, there is no rhyme
nor reason. Perhaps, there is very little
meaning, as fomenting flesh melts from
form to shapeless ease, where no words
Space lingers between us, as your empty mind
races to hapless conclusions about
women and their need to always feel things.
Why can’t they just not feel things for once,
I can see you thinking that, I can hear it
as if you’re shouting it millimetres from my skull,
the heat of your breath on my forehead.
You’re wringing your hands, and I begin to think
you’re going to leave.
A groan. You’re groaning. I want to ask what
it means because I ache for meaning more than
anything else. I crave it so much that my whole
existence hangs on that groan. Tell me what it means,
I need to know what it means. You’re still
groaning. Is there silence or deafening noise
in that groan? It is cavernous.
All vibrations cease. You reach out to where
nail smashed bone.
Your warmth washes over the wounds
men left as they stole my trust, smashing
bone and shattering heart.
You look where I said it hurts, not in my eyes,
and you begin to talk, as though the beige that
sits within me is worthy of time and consideration.
It still permeates my body, this unfeeling feeling;
it doesn’t melt right away, but I feel the tension
release, nerve by nerve, breath by breath.
I don’t hear every word, but I hear the noise
I crave, the noise of your lips as you
whisper that what I feel doesn’t need
It is existence. This feeling here.
This love that pours through the colourless
fog of my mired thoughts.
You shattered the ice that once sealed my
death fate, and I gasp for the breath you
remind me to take. You know that I don’t
need your hand, but you will still offer it,
You will sacrifice your warmth for
life in my body.
© Kat Manica
(I’m actually quite proud of this poem because I’ve been feeling in a bit of a creative rut, and creation feels so good. I finished this out of breath, which is just another reminder how visceral writing and creating can be.)