Ecosystem of a Grievance

 

I nourish the malcontent by eating a spoonful of rotten prunes each morning

while the television yells in my living room’s general direction. 

I’ve been hiding all of the ill will in a dank, clammy basement with a mud floor. 

Letting it outside on overcast evenings where the moon is a faint ring that whirrs, fading, aged fluorescent crescent. An aura around a darkened circle. Sterile road leading into town, lined with streetlights hinting at their own fuzz of light.

Before the crisp air can wake up its senses, I cram it back into the dark corner. Kick it. Use coarse words.

I turn on my car’s AM radio and feel it between the voices, crawling out of a far away canyon mixed with an auditory haze. Played through a mute. Buzzing with rage a size too small. A little deeper, into the well I threw a rock into last week but I’m still waiting for it to hit the water. For the satisfying rush of the surface tension breaking.

I am starting to worry.

If the well has gone dry, where will we end our thirst?

The prunes writhe inside me.

Stretching their clenched fists and slamming into my vital organs.

The television and the radio swell their chests up. 

Make their voices blend in the sound of appliances left to run on the highest setting. Wail for relief.

I am waiting for the well-maintained shoe to drop.

Waiting to hear the sound to tell me what to do next.

So much of me is ready to finally Let loose.

Own it.

Now.