I’d rather be filled with 1,000 wasps
Or perhaps trapped in a tailored Dante scene
Recognized by me because I am someone with a body to tailor punishment to
Someone with a mind to torment and a heart to break
Than nobody at all.
When I graduated my teacher assigned me a word with speed, derived from lyric
And she called me an active participant in my own life
And I never felt a more beautiful assignment, a compliment with more weight
Than that of a comment with density and interpretation
Because I’d rather be non-stop
I’d rather take a turn too fast and hit the wall
Than to stall.
I’d rather be my biggest fan and my worst critic
Than to have nobody read my name and to have life, or death, assign it nothingness
In silence tell me that my servitude was worthless
And I’d rather be filled with 1,000 butterflies
And feel my illness at its peak, and to turn in my sheets and watch the clock climb with struggling old limbs,
Than to never feel worry with its partner excitement.
To never hear them argue with each other before a speech.
To never hear them make up and take a vacation and hire a babysitter named peace of mind.
And I’d rather love at 1,000 times the normal amount to love someone
And accept 1,000 times more risk
Or love even 1,000 people and open myself to loss
Than to live this life without connection
Than to feel an emptiness in my ribcage
To have bones like a bird.
And fly above the connection darting like movie magic on the level where people walk and exchange smiles or even peripheral awareness of each other
I love these heavy bones and this loaded transcript I carry in my synapses
The saddest word I know is hollow, and the implications that follow.