I wrote this poem several years ago as I was struggling through the many pains of separation and divorce. Sometimes when all the feels build up, poetry is a way that I release the pressure before doing something that would be harmful.
by Heron Michelle
There is a darkness
rising from my fetid depths, roiling,
stomach bile and acrid steaming,
pressure builds to whistle screaming,
the tweak and grate of countless irritating rubs
against my grain; I am raw.
Do I name this dark carbonated rising
to pop the toxic bubbles before I blow?
old nemeses–no–partners in crime,
intimately known, yet loathed,
for the yucky, shameful feelings that they crow.
That hilt in my back, pop.
Lost love, friends, respect, pop, pop, pop.
Blindness and delusion, pop.
An idealistic young woman who with each unholy lick and suck
swallows what was sacred, and mine–bitch–POP.
My own youthful idealism, pop.
I’m laid bare in my own shadow,
open and oozing, bomb diffusing
dazed from the naming,
splattered with the film of teary splashes,
dark, iridescent and shining.
Names of darkness banished to
What remains needs renaming,
Yet I still don’t know if my