Wrestling

Wrestling

Those hands—
that my hands
came from
were put
over my mouth,
and so for a
fleeting moment
I got louder,
more crass,
more honest—
for a moment.

Chalk it all up to
feeling blue that day,
or stress about my future.
Pussy, passive excuses,
because the truth?
Well we don’t use
that
in
my
family.
We pacify situations.
We tip-toe the lines of
actuality with great skill
like a high-wire artist
in a traveling circus.
We put our jazz hands up
in front of our chests and shake
No to confrontation.
There is always a stage,
always an act,
a smile to fake.
Small talk
to feign interest.
I fucking hate
that about my family’s
silent but known
rules of life.
The real conundrum
is that if I told each,
what I thought,
would they leave me?
Most likely.
So do I go
for it?
Go it resenting
my blood?
Or, do I
just go?