It’s not enough
just to cry.
I need to explain why
I am lying on the floor,
pushed me down.
I need to
confess the name
of the invisible tumor
that must be eating my brain.
And if the whys aren’t satisfied,
rumors will assume the truth.
I shiver without a fever.
I am terrified of shadows.
My pain does not qualify as serious;
not as chronic or sudden or serious,
or as concerning as death.
But, I agreed not to put another
why in their minds.
When asked to describe my mind, amplified:
I’m in fight-or-flight mode,
but I don’t swallow moth wings.
It’s not a joyous flutter I feel.
In one blink, in one breath, I am feeling
with two shots of adrenaline on a no-sleep diet.
My thoughts branch out and splinter into thorns,
and from them fish bone needles fall.
I’m expected to find a certain one,
while eyes stare and a stopwatch ticks.
It’s as if I’m always waiting for a consequence.
I feel life the same way I brace myself for anger to follow lightning.
And, for those who aren’t afraid of thunder,
this translation will stumble back to doubt, as will I,
until the next time someone asks,
About the Poet Jada Yee: I’m a struggling human being who writes poetry. Music has always been an inspiring anchor; my writing coach that gently shakes the neurons out of bed. It’s the joyful, saddening, enraged vocals and melodies that make the inner gray ask for color, and sometimes, it’s the other way around. The escape into the rhythm of writing is one of the best natural highs. My little poems have appeared in Ibis Head Review, Greensboro Review, A Quiet Courage and elsewhere.