The Incredible Hulk has had nothing on me.
The explosive student inside me
slams a folder on the desk in his head
and throws a thought open so hard
it leaves a doorknob-size dent
in what’s left of this thing they call a heart.
And being a teenager,
he can’t reconcile how he sees himself
both as a kid and as an assistant principal
telling adults what’s going to happen
if they continue to behave irresponsibly,
much like the way the intuitive teacher I am
is having trouble reconciling
being a walking wound himself,
with being a kind of emptiness
for the collective’s mud of emotion to settle
and begin drawing from itself again
as if it were a spring.
I’m not sure how to reconcile
how the most empathic part of me,
the part that impulsively
punches holes in his own feelings
until they’re just not there,
can at a moment’s notice let open the
floodgates and make everything that skips
about becoming a solace for others.
I’m not sure how to make peace with
how, in order to become a kind of
forgiveness, the self must first tear its
words off and jump into a hot sun of pure
anger and vengeance resembling itself,
without regard for anything or anyone else.
It’s not cancer or heart disease, I know,
but the way I see it, it’s kind of a health risk.