Fuck Line Breaks

Photo by Landon Parenteau on Unsplash

I want to write a poem, but the line breaks make me angry. I want to snap the lines between my fingers like my personal harvest of plump grapes from the bunch. I instead feel the grips of perfection snapping the bones in my fingers.

I want to write about war, but not war like men storming beaches with veins bulging and spit spewing. I want to write about war when men spit on my face as they declare war on my body. When they burst my ear drum as I pinch and pull at my flesh in the mirror, longing my hands to be those that mold the clay.

I want to write about self-worth, but only after my eyes have adjusted to the contact lenses of self-compassion. I want to write about the dull ache behind my eyes. Years of strain behind the glasses of people’s perceptions.

I want to write about happiness, but only when it’s nested in my soul. I want to write about choosing myself without the anguished pangs of disappointing others. I want to write about it when it’s mine to hold and not a carrot I’ll never catch.

I want to write about rage, but not Travis, Jack, Patrick, Tyler, or Zeus’. I want to write about Carrie, Jennifer, Pearl, Medusa. Pigs blood, serpent locks, pitchforks, stone. The quiet burn that smolders so hot it’s absent of color. The burn that reshapes townships as quick as an exhale of contentment.

I want to write about female revenge, but it is only something I can admire from a TV’s midnight glow. As my heart swells in awe, it settles in the knowing of its destiny to be soft.

I want to write about ruderals.

I want to write about them because I don’t give a fuck if you’re tired of it.

In a world that has taught me hate and shame,

In a world that watched me burn to the ground with a satisfied smirk, ruderals taught me resilience.

I want to write about digging my roots in that ashen plane and sewing the soil with tenacity.

I want to write about taking up the space they never thought I would and spanning my roots for miles.

I want to write about my healing tilling a foundation for others to do the same.

My softness fertile ground where others may rest their roots too. Winding and intertwining into a safety net to allow generations after us to do the same.

I want to write a poem

But I’m going to write it my way.