Hands Off | Mind Off | Turn Off | A Poem

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I can’t find my own words anymore.

You hear what you want.

All words are scarlet red, dirty, burdened.

You’ve lost all nuances.

Language is ice that breaks beneath our feet.

I can’t say it. You can’t say it.

What are you saying?

Is that what you’re thinking?

Guillotine, end of dialogue, monologue against monologue.

Hands on my feet.

I build a world in my bedroom.

Can’t listen to you. Can’t think.

Can’t feel. Overwhelmed. Land in flames and words.

Spikes and cotton wool.

Vocabulary without life, without substance.

But you have motifs. You have intentions.

Parrot, echo, copy, repeat, circles, recycling, all voices mutate into one.

You have no idea who you are and why you kneel and repeat.

I need to care about this.

I need to show that I care, care with my fingertips, I care, I care,

I care, can’t you see? Did I not yell loud enough?

Never enough, never sufficient, feed me blindly.

Self-importance, smaller picture, rhetoric, suffocation, right, right, righteous.

What is going on behind your face?

Language is a minefield, syntax, meaningful, misunderstand me,

Misinterpret me, decontextualise me, dehumanise me,

Rid me of sense, strip me of what I intended,

Create what you wanted to hear,

Paint me in red, showcase everything wrong in your eyes,

Focus on the unfortunate details and leave the human package behind,

No softener for your hardcore stance, imagination, projection,

You want to sell me something, not buying it, not playing along,

It bores me to sit in a corner facing your shrinking walls.

Photo by Diana Akhmetianova on Pexels.com

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