The way human beings grow is this:
we break bones, we tear skin, we dig into the earth
and try to force her to take us back. We crumble and
we molt and we break ourselves open just to see
what happens when we shed everything we are.
We are destructive by nature, careless by choice -
we are machines too imperfect to predict our own
carefully orchestrated destruction.
We throw miles between us and call it growth,
throw landmines between us and call it love,
throw ourselves against the tide and call it fate.
We patch ourselves up the best we can.
Our bodies stretch, our lungs expand;
all the while, our hearts, they beat and beat
and beat. The last time I swallowed a grenade
I called it love and called it hate and called it
the thing that kept me awake but all it was
was absence, all it was was ache. We tell each other
there’s nothing wrong, we drown in our own silence.
We put ice on the swelling and call it healing,
choke back our misery and call it dealing,
wake up and do it again and call it coping