TheCourtRose

When I was little, growing like south Texas weeds, cicadas sang at dusk I loved them heralding darkened oncoming skies Their voices as constant as summer’s clinging dew Mournful, stoic, a eulogy to light's end Their songs persisted in my existence Yet their nighttime mutterings, in between the flutterings spelling good night, sounded like apologies For taking away the day, maybe? I never knew Only that their lamentations haunted me long after childhood left As if each iridescent wing, every jointed leg and reflecting eye, was deeply, irrevocably ashamed Being so young, I never understood their music- but all I hear now is you in cicada’s song I am so sorry, mo chroi, they sing After being apart for as long as we were ever each other's, I am sorry Not for leaving, but the manner in which I left There is so much inside a goodbye, and now, being older, honoring our ending should have come first Paused in my...

What message has been so thoroughly whipped to skin that it is readily agreed upon without further consideration? What perceived truth is consumed, like medication straight to the gut, as the surest path to love? To acceptance? I have readily swallowed so much even from unworthy hands Scripts repeat, repeat, repeat "Be a good girl" "Don't cause a scene" "It's not lady like to be angry" "Wait for your prince" To concur so readily with discussions of misogyny and sexism- without fully accepting my internalization of both My acquiescence to each Knowing that All and Everything hinges on my ability to keep. taking. it. It is not who I am, but what I am able to produce that is of inherent value here I am a milking cow and I am being devoured whole So easy to keep shambling forth To actively remember that I am choosing to stand in this space is a trial Trained so well, I would almost be proud if I was...

Your biggest wish for me (perhaps even still) has always been to turn off the frenetic energy of my brain. Just lay it aside, you intone. Put it to rest for a spell, for some semblance of quiet from the mad rushes inside me. (Not sure if you wanted me to take a break from myself, or you needed a break from me, or if it was a weary combination of both.) Yet, to my ear, this is akin to laying down weapons in the midst of battle. Then, at this saddened juncture, I must admit to viewing life as an ongoing war. (Which may account for this deep-seated, long held fatigue.) There are times when separation from relations is so acute, it's like I wasn't birthed but instead crawled forth, fully formed, from the head of Thunder Gods and can claim no parentage. Other times, I am a wonky/perfect patchwork of my mother and father, so exquisitely sewn together it seems as if I could never be any other rag doll...

Supreme discomfort here Discordant refrains that jangle teeth Acutely aware of the spaces, the sounds between us Despite whatever else we may desire, we are all separated, one and all