I’m trying to process something, but it’s not getting through. The current keeps dead-ending against something deep inside of me and I don’t know what it is. Something broken where words don’t quite fit. Something expected, socially, culturally, personally from me. Something that gets taken for granted because I have this fucking body that I didn’t ask for. This chest and these ovaries, reproductive things I didn’t want, would rather not have. You think, at the top of the pile, that it’s easy to be like this. That you might never feel a difference between being alligned with something owned and the one owning it. That maybe your resistance to “getting stepped on” is just a little bit misplaced.
I’m sick of men bitching about their pain. I know this is reactionary, but it cries out for some kind of address.
I know. That’s not fair. I’m trying desperately to get away from it, but I keep coming back to this element of “you can’t understand”.
And yet, I know this, too, is designed. I know you can. I can see it, hear it, sense it. You are trampled too. We are all underfoot here.
Puppets tied by strings none of us designed.
You are supposed to be strong and I, weak.
Neither of us are either of these.
We are breaking up, breaking apart, splintering and shattering and nobody can save anyone else.
We are all drowning, so no one can reach out.
To try to save the one beside you is to doom you both.
How can we possibly go on?
Let go and let drown.
My life isn’t worth the time.
I’ll sink to the bottom and meet you there.
Fair, we’ll call it, that we should all die like this.
Nobody can breathe and nobody is saved.
The dominant one is the winner of something, but still it’s death they’ll get.
Let the ocean bloat us and fill us up.
Release is the only option.
I’m in; are you?