Poem: Day After

Anna Maria Maiolino — É o que sobra, 1974

My illness is as physical as a fever

Winding and hit, a crack, splatter, split

Caress the wall, it feels like skin

I wish I was joking

Mad woman your mind is as mad as sin.

Kinetic energy, my Acetlycholine says so 

Where did the dopamine go?

It’s not as simple as that

But something is firing

one eye twitch

No more fucking cannabis

I'm restless my body says so

I am at mercy of these neurotransmitters

Then a culmination of all the repression

Like a cut artery of an athlete

It gushes, it blasts in all directions

Maybe it'll hit a care, or a nerve of another

My body is getting ready to push it out

I wouldn't be surprised if black molasses

Sweet smelling like fish

Oozes from my pores.

Its as physical as a pregnancy, I hope my sickness falls out from between my legs

I would smother it

Bury it in the garden

You are a fucking liability

No matter how hard you try

Good girl, patient woman, tolerant tolerant,

In order to be the perfect person, a better version of myself

I have to grab hurt by the hair and push her to her knees.

Tape her mouth, the adhesive getting the brunt of the begging pleading for a hug, some leftover love

Shut the fuck up, you sit here while I try my hand at living.

Don’t make a peep.