Bury your dead

There is a loneliness in holding my sadness 

alone in my hand, while you tell me I should not be mourning. 

I wish there was a way in which I can explain to you 

what you make me carry in silence. It is not just the death, 

or the memories, or the knowledge I once gathered 

from my community that I keep on having to bury. It is knowing 

that you do not get it. It is knowing that 

no matter what I do, 

my life will never measure up to your expectations,

neither will my friends, even though they are the ones

that carry me on their backs. Unless, of course,

we decide to be something inspirational.

A fairy to your magical dreams about how you

can be better, how at least you do not have it

worse, because you have two feet and the ability

to use them. God forbid other things are important.

I do not want your life, is that so hard to understand?

I do not want to fit in a box that is two sizes too small.

No I do not want your life, I want theirs back. And if that

requires some sacrifice of you, I demand it. I want

you to dig up what society has buried and deemed unworthy

and I want you to dig up the god awful truth of who you are.

Cause you don’t think we see you. We always see you.

We never really had a choice not to.

So no, I do not just carry my mourning. I carry 

my fed up ness, and my hurt, and my anger,

Boiling over so hard it might give me a heart attack one day,

all with it and if you expect me to untangle them,

well good fucking luck trying. You never will get me to release

any of it. If we do not mourn ourselves, no one ever will.

And if we are not angry about it, no one will ever be angry.

I gladly keep the torch burning and I will make an art out of

cursing your name. I will do my damn hardest at

splintering your peace. I will make you remember 

that we fucking exist. Understand this. You can’t kill us all.

But fuck, I wish you stopped trying.