Cross

I’ve waited so long for happiness

what I want to do is change.

But, an angry person,

I’ve been traumatized so many times

the kind of anger I’ve become

can barely stand to show itself,

for fear it might feel

its philosophy

nailed to the cross

like an agreeable sacrifice,

like a tiny orphanage

imprisoned beneath

an even tinier grave.

I still blame my mother and my father

for enduring me

into a horribly brown-nailed big stinking toe

that throbs and stinks

like a loser

embarrassed by the kind of forgiveness

only a bridge knows

how to hide.

I’ve transposed the

fungus of blame

onto my past so many times

I no longer know

how to believe.

But I’m too angry to pray.

So in the meantime

what I think I’ll have to do

if I want to be happy again

is transcend this trauma

I don’t know how to just now,

and imagine myself as this moment

my body floats away.

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