Toxic Waste

I want you to

stop telling me

your opinion

like it's the

right answer.

Like you're the only one

who knows anything.

It's fucking annoying.

It's fucking rude.

It's a fucking product

of where you were raised.

A toxic place.

...

They complain that

you're arrogant,

they don't know

where it came from;

but they don't look at

themselves in the mirror

when they say it,

the way they should.

They might recognize

something.

and maybe,

they know that.

...

At least I

have the arrogance

to look my arrogance

in the face and say

you do not control

me.

Not that I'm perfect,

not that I

haven't had my moments.

I want that for you.

I want that for everyone

living in the toxic place,

so deep in it

they're unsure that

they exist past the waste.

The ability to let

go of the anchor and

swim up for air.

To let yourself float

up, free from

expectation of perfection.

...

It's so easy to

fall into

fire

thinking that

it's comfort

because it's warm

before it burns

you irreversibly; because it

smells lovely

before your skin

melts away.

Toxic waste, I imagine,

is similar. It is

at least similar

in people.

If you are blindfolded,

what is the difference

between burning

and melting

by the hand

that you love?

...

They are one

in the same;

An End.

...

I hope you rise

from the waste

and rinse it off.

I hope you

bandage

yourself up

and

say, "we've got

some healing to do."

I wish I could do that

for you, but I cannot.

That is one thing you

learn outside of the waste–

that not everything is in

control. It never was.

...

You cannot remove

someone else's waste

anymore than

you can forget your own.

You cannot control how long

the healing takes, you can only start.