(Hot Mess Millionaire Musings in Poetry) If the Coronavirus was a woman I loved, what would I say to her?
Please forgive me.
It’s not you.
You are the consequence for all or my self-hate projected in the atmosphere through hate crimes, black bodies outlined in white chalk, and unchecked Weinstein’s worldwide.
I feel your consequence in the palpable fear revealing itself as government-mandated social distance. Keeping me from touching your skin so I don’t remember we are the one and the same.
I hear your consequence in the sadness of your tears turned to flames that burned down the very trees that keep me alive in Australia.
Forgive me for turning you into the enemy Corona.
You are the compilation of every judgment, blame, and righteous “right” I felt I was entitled to have. I have stocked piled my anger, bitterness, and petty point of view for decades.
That stockpile became a sickness.
A virus that travels in the unseen.
You’re like a ghost, Corona.
I can’t touch you.
But the very threat of your presence undoes my world.
Ghosts are Spirits, unrested.
Ghost play tricks on your mind to get your attention.
Ghosts make you feel their presence but never them.
I find it ironic that you show up in my throat, scratching my voice away for three or four days before you pollute my lungs with thick mucus making it hard to take a deep breath.
Is that what I did to you Corona—take your voice? Did I make it almost impossible for you to breathe because of all of the hate I kept using my voice for?
As I lie in bed thinking about you, thinking about us, it’s clear to me that you are the sum total of all of my unforgiveness.
My unfulfilled expectations.
My resentments and regrets.
You are the energetic manifestation of all of my failings.
I made you Corona.
But you are stronger than me.
You quietly, gently, made me sit down.
In the quiet of my quarantine, I’m hearing your cries.
You cry out, silently, for peace.
I hear you Corona.
And I am listening.
Please forgive me.
I. love. you.
The Human Race
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