I don’t enjoy being angry,
it’s just more productive than being sad.
so, with a frustrated groan,
I pull on my leggings and tank top
and drag myself to my kickboxing class.
god forbid I acknowledge my feelings,
unable to tell if this is laziness or grief.
my body, a bag of iron filings,
heavy like sand and flopped down on my magnetic bed.
my mind, full of ghost cars driving
at a snail’s pace down an empty and endless highway.
I lay there, exhausted,
craving energy and warmth and hope,
anything that will shake me
from this nightmare I can’t seem to wake up from.
all I can think of about is her,
with the noose around my neck.
I handed her the other end of the rope,
and as she walked away
she left my gasping for air,
I told her I didn’t love her
because I don’t know what love was.
child of a broken home,
where love looked like dodged kisses, blocked doorways,
and a threat locked away in a safe,
loaded with bullets.
how could I understand what love was?
I told her I didn’t love her,
refusing to assign a label to the feelings I had.
I want to put my hands in hers,
but instead, I focus on the way my fists strike the punching bag.
I am tired.
I don’t enjoy being angry.