Inflamed

A kaleidescope of colours erupted from me last night

when waves of pain hit me in a mish mash,

rising up through my solar plexus

and crawling slowly up my esophagus,

just to remind me

IT was still thriving.

Of course, since my thirtieth year, I have known

it will never take leave and have since wrapped myself

in purple ribbons,

trying to wear it (YOU)

as a badge of honour,

after all, we are fastened

whether I fight with blood curdling screams,

or a thin, courageous smile.

Your violet whips predictably constrict

my center,

clashing with the manipura yellow that weakly

filters through,

still fighting for it’s rightful frequency.

Ironically creating the colour of excrement.

Still fighting.

I still fight.

Even when you trick me,

becoming remiss for a year or more,

letting me enjoy yellow roses growing in my belly

for a little while, only to rip them away again.

Even when I can’t leave my bed for days,

staring at the ceiling, writhing in pain

and waiting for the lava eruptions

to send me running to the khazi.

Even when I am drowning in guilt as I,

paralyzed,

weakly watch the world spin 'round me as

I look into my disappointed children’s faces.

I still fight.

Because I am angry.

I am strong.

Because I still can.