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.