You ever feel all tipped-over like? Rolling in humiliation of over and done and can’t take it back? Learned since then, but maybe it doesn’t matter because you clawed a hole in a wall that was someone and blood came out right on your hands. You cupped it and caught it and held them down so you could tip back in the gold of their life-flow, but it was too late. Your hands weren’t clean. You left them toxic.

You know, right? How you crawled away all wadded up and refuse-tossed, spit-upon, over-assessed and smashed like garlic? Bits of, cracked off, chipped, dashed, broken? You feel that and sit hunched, trying to drag in your ragged edges but there are too many and everyone can see because goddamn you are glowing, a freak-green neon sign. You are the frazzing constant crackle of the quivering mixed up dragging pain that arcs through your history toenails to now. You are flipped over and fried up and plattered for everyone to look at pick at dip into take from see you roll you around in their mouths and grimace bitterly.

You know you know you you are a shitty little pill to swallow.

Shawna Ayoub

Shawna Ayoub is an essayist, fiction writer, poet and instructor with an MFA in creative writing from Indiana University. Some of her work has been published in The Manifest-Station, Role Reboot, [wherever], The Huffington Post, The Oxford Review and Exit 7. Her writing explores the intersections of race, place and survivorship. She writes with honesty about her own experience in order to transform pain.

0 Discussion to this post

  1. fyrdraca says:

    Hmmm…not to diminish what ever angst prompted this raw post, but it sounds like how I feel after a particularly fiery hormonal tantrum… where my rabid wild eyed rage is replaced by more introspective lip biting reflection and often… apologies…

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  2. Ula says:

    I love this. I can feel it on my insides.

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