So unfamiliar with this feeling –
It’s got no name, no colour, no sound,
But it’s under my skin;
Creeping, scratching, gnawing around.
I see the way their entitlement lifts them,
To do what they want with disregard,
The paralysis of the trigger they’ve hit
Without any intent, I’m completely disarmed;
I can’t move to protest,
I can’t speak to alarm.
Without any contact,
Their behaviour causes harm.
I think that it’s anger;
This scratching that gnaws –
At; myself, my past,
At; the trigger and the cause.
At; how dare they do what they please,
With our stuff, with our presence, even with our bodies.
At; how easy it is for them to parade, un challenged,
As the people who fear them are looped in their damage.
At; them assuming control and laughing in its wake,
And all I can do is sit, my mind racing as I shake.
I can see what might happen,
Which is shaped by my past –
My ghost is gone, yet omnipresent –
How long will this last?
My words have no power,
My voice has no weight,
Thinking I had a handle on this,
Was a fundamental mistake.
But above all I’m lost;
In the fact I can’t feel –
Yet this nameless, colourless, soundlessness…
Is overwhelmingly real.