Head on a Stick by Jennifer Chapman

I feel a push and pull inside of me,
Deep in the pit of my soul.
Roots stretch to the ends of my stomach,
Tangled with bones—
A whirlpool,
A quicksand,
An angry ocean
Pulling, sucking everything in.

I will either drown,
And the ocean will continue to crash,
The waters still dangerous,
Or I might make it through to the other side.

I feel something deep within—
It feels familiar,
But otherworldly,
Lurking in the pits of my chest and stomach.
If I could pull it out,
Maybe I would be normal.
Perhaps I could knit it,
Weave it, tie it into something new, useful.
Maybe I could leave it behind,
Pretend it never happened,
A dark, sticky tar
Pulling me to the bottom,
Trying to metabolize me.

I always get out, though.
I’m scared one day I’ll be too weak—
(Not before it tells me I’m the best fighter,
But I don’t know if it can speak.)

God, please don’t let me be so sorrowful
That I become hateful.
I hope I’m understood,
But please let me be misunderstood,
As needed,
As long as I can stay kind
And remembered as good.

I’m trying to be “good”—whatever that means anymore—
But sometimes I feel soaked in evil,
Like I don’t deserve a thing.

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