I just thought you should know I’m doing okay now,
I’m shielded by hardened sweat and scum,
Wielding a sword of my broken fingernails,
Voice rupturing with my vengeful war song.
I am forged by the failure to be perfect,
The pressure to exist with precision cracks my knees,
Self-assured strides callous my feet,
All while being told to die.
I just thought you should know what I’ve been through,
Furious deserts and loveless tundra,
The sweet, prickly fruit of addiction,
The ice shards of words I’ll never forget.
Since the last time I saw you,
I’ve been pricked by needles,
Forced to breathe acid-laced air,
Draped in blue scrubs,
And drugged to the point of stability.
I found my dignity in the fetal position,
I needed my breasts to warm my chest,
Needed to put my head to my knees…
To cry,
To think,
To let the spite bubble like stomach acid.
I just thought you should know what I wish for the future,
Black ink shaped to form the letters of my name,
The hard edges of words,
Words I’ll write,
Words that hug and choke my readers,
And make you regret your cruelty.
I hope your regret castrates you and your confidence.
I just thought you should know how your wish for my death used to make me want to grant it,
I thought death could make me feel seen,
Make me a scene on the city block,
For what screams see me more than the crunch of my bones under your flip-flops,
And the smack of vultures feasting on pink human flesh.
So here I stand,
Ready to cleave your arrogance,
Swinging with the might of jagged pills and my hatred for you,
Ready to taste the sweetness of justice…
But why do I taste bitterness?
What’s making me gag and sputter?
After all, you’re bad,
Bad to your bloodstream.
But what if… badness isn’t a stone?
Static,
Unmoving,
Unchanging.
What if… it’s oil?
Slippery,
Flowing,
Seeping.
What if… it has seeped into me?
Maybe, this war song needs to be an inquiry…
What is it that you want me to know?
What is it you’ve been through?
What have you braved?
What do you wish for the future?
I’m taking off my armor,
Dropping my sword,
And crying with you.
We are both aching.
* * *
Raine Ajani is a young student of the writing craft based in Portland, Oregon who hungers for growth. The daughter of an Ethiopian immigrant, she enjoys fantasy books, making jewelry, and exploring the nuances of the human experience through language and conversation.
