I’m growing so fast my joints hurt.
I eat after I’m full
because I remain unnourished.
My bones have bite marks on them
from holding the impossible
as the dying ghouls of modernity
gnaw at my flesh.
I will sit
with the helplessness.
Like my ancestors
who watched millions
die of plague
and endured the indignities
of feudal rein.
Like my mothers
trapped in their bodies,
their brilliant minds
caged and gagged
by lesser men.
Like my brothers
whose flesh built this nation
yet inscribed as property:
pencil marks in books,
whip marks on backs.
Like my sisters
masking and passing,
hiding from crosses and swastikas,
marching to the furnace
and execution pyre.
Like my elders
who frolicked and made love
in the shadow
of looming tsunamis
of conquest
and the roiling wreckage
of colonialism.
They cannot teach me the way,
but they have already taught me
I can survive.
The liberation and terror of free fall.
The finality
of fully coming out.
I am a janitor of civilization.
This is a generation of consequence(s).
The hardest thing
is for a good person to realize
we’re
not
the
good
guys.
© S. Rinderle, December 2024
