What if feelings were simply
make believe, and the pain
we suffer just a made up thing?
But they aren’t.
They’re real, aren’t they?
How they rule out hearts.
We let them lead us around
and try to explain to our mates
why we just had to have one more
pair of shoes, or to our parents why
we snuck out of the house to
meet our boyfriend again.
I remember how I used them to
explain my relationship with a
higher power, but ended up
doubting, because I felt like a
prisoner about to be hung.
How quick the righteous were
to drop their blade of intolerance
of judgement. But I escaped.
Briefly, I was absent of feelings,
and free from authority. I thought
I had moved out from under the
snide mouth of the patent leather
of life, too naive to understand there
would still be judgement from those
other misconceived safe places.
My heart breaking like a glass.
Coca-Cola bottle on the sidewalk.
My life there between the cracks
and crevices, where it’s ninety-nine
degrees in the breeze,
but there is no breeze.
Pain grieving in the hot sun of truth,
and in my existence. Do we give into
the black and blue assortment of scars
in the making, or do we fight to move
past the doubt and adversity and
into a peaceful existence?
Can we choose happiness even
if our feelings have no proof?