I punched the glass window the other day
and the cracked shards screamed and snapped at me back.
“Well aren’t you being a tyrant; now
we will seize and swallow your hateful hand.”
I was kind of sad at that because I
didn’t mean any harm. But the shards, they
attacked and pulled my palm apart. Gnawed, they
chewed, they bit down hard. Splintered my tall days,
emptied out my gush, gutter-heart. I
guess I didn’t like that; my fist reeled back,
but the red was pooling from my hands
and my mother was stamping bands flat. Now
I told her, “I can fight with my fists now,
you don’t have to hold me back. It’s what they
deserve anyway for hurting my hand.”
I thought I made sense, but after a day
I was swept away into the bland white, back
here again. Shards fell from my eyes and I
wiped them away. I felt my sight sting. I
hurled my hand at my face. All is still now,
and the wall is pushing against my back.
I elbow it, but what can I do. They
will roll me back flat. Any day. Today.
Unless I push through these bands. Use my hand
to push them all away. Mother, don’t handle
me like you always like to do. Hey, I
can make my own now, I can make my day.
I even found the door. I chop wood now;
you can’t get in my way. And neither can they.
Watch me now, Mother, watch my beaten back
tear into day. I can see it now: you will back
into the house when you hear the knocking hands,
and you will cry into your palms as they
talk of foul play. How I walked through walls I
peeled away. How I met with glass, now
crying on the floor, blood tears run all day.
But day shines at me. I will never go back.
And no, I don’t feel bad for my bloody hands.
I wanted to fight this fight. And so did they.