Fareedah Agberemi
the existence of feelings
my dictionary says chaos is an utter state of confusion.
it is not my definition of choice but certainly what I feel when I say I’m fine despite the bird that constantly beats at the cages that are my ribs.
what am I feeling?
do I feel?
another entry says chaos is the inherent unpredictability in the behavior of a complex natural system and I wonder if that is explanation for my tears when I want to yell,
why can I taste salt when I want to spill my rage with a confidence that will force the world to listen. am I not the definition of rage?
and the last, the last is one whose letters beat a familiarity with my heart
obsolete: chasm– division, separation, difference.
I am an abyss in the fabric of human emotions,
an imperfection of creation,
bones, blood and tendon.
I am the tears and the bird and the snot and the shaking smile.
do I feel?
yes.
what am I feeling?
silence,
everything,
the chaos.
my dictionary says chaos is an utter state of confusion.
it is not my definition of choice but certainly what I feel when I say I’m fine despite the bird that constantly beats at the cages that are my ribs.
what am I feeling?
do I feel?
another entry says chaos is the inherent unpredictability in the behavior of a complex natural system and I wonder if that is explanation for my tears when I want to yell,
why can I taste salt when I want to spill my rage with a confidence that will force the world to listen. am I not the definition of rage?
and the last, the last is one whose letters beat a familiarity with my heart
obsolete: chasm– division, separation, difference.
I am an abyss in the fabric of human emotions,
an imperfection of creation,
bones, blood and tendon.
I am the tears and the bird and the snot and the shaking smile.
do I feel?
yes.
what am I feeling?
silence,
everything,
the chaos.
in which you're the petiole of my heart
i thirst for every word of your enthusiastic approval
stretch limbs over bloodied racks to see more than nothing in your eyes. is it good enough if I don’t scorch my wings on the edge of the sun?
ashes flake off my heart as your hands braid my hair in silence. every snag of your fingers is a testament of your displeasure.
I should fly higher: perfection encased in golden imperfection.
I try, I stumble,
I try, I fly and I fly
but some days–today–my heart falls off its petiole.
a skipped beat and debilitating numbness.
it’s a reminder:
we are nothing but splotches of imperfections lurking behind larger imperfections. just like you.
i thirst for every word of your enthusiastic approval
stretch limbs over bloodied racks to see more than nothing in your eyes. is it good enough if I don’t scorch my wings on the edge of the sun?
ashes flake off my heart as your hands braid my hair in silence. every snag of your fingers is a testament of your displeasure.
I should fly higher: perfection encased in golden imperfection.
I try, I stumble,
I try, I fly and I fly
but some days–today–my heart falls off its petiole.
a skipped beat and debilitating numbness.
it’s a reminder:
we are nothing but splotches of imperfections lurking behind larger imperfections. just like you.
"no man is an island"
That is what you say. But I’ve watched man become something worse. Blown away by his neighbours. A removal. A supposed cleansing from the brown veal of the map.
No man is an island yet a people’s name that was once chanted could fade to cracking whispers. Or let me rephrase, bombs and bulldozers. Repeat yourself so I can think. Even the flag is gone from the emoji bar.
I am man and pain sings a tune in the cells of my blood. You will climb upon podiums and say no man is an island. What you won’t say is that it’s the men you pick that won’t stay islands.
The others would die voices drowned out by weapons you supplied. Or perhaps tides as they sink below the maps into oceans of civilisations past.
That is what you say. But I’ve watched man become something worse. Blown away by his neighbours. A removal. A supposed cleansing from the brown veal of the map.
No man is an island yet a people’s name that was once chanted could fade to cracking whispers. Or let me rephrase, bombs and bulldozers. Repeat yourself so I can think. Even the flag is gone from the emoji bar.
I am man and pain sings a tune in the cells of my blood. You will climb upon podiums and say no man is an island. What you won’t say is that it’s the men you pick that won’t stay islands.
The others would die voices drowned out by weapons you supplied. Or perhaps tides as they sink below the maps into oceans of civilisations past.