244. My heart is the golden tip of an arrow.

It is difficult to harness anger. To survive,
I am told that I am to whistle for it
whenever the harsher weather settles in
as if it were a wild dog that owes me
its command. Anger, they say,
will burn up the rest of it.
I'm supposed to call people cruel when I mean it
and I'm supposed to take back my power
while not accidentally picking up any of the weight.
I'm not grounded. I went over the goddamn moon
and it's cold out here. Too quiet.
Speckles of light are nice to look at
but my arms aren't light years long.
Space is much larger when you're actually out here.
I was wrong, you aren't getting smaller and smaller
the further I get from the earth.
I need a cup of coffee. I need to learn another language.
Need need need. I need to run out of room,
but not like this, not in the way
that keeps everyone else from getting through.
And so my name sends you to splinters.
We leave and circle over and over,
our footprints scarred into the floorboards.
Patience has turned into something disgusting.
When I see you. I will not know what to do.