Vachon Imagined

“What do you feel?”
she asks—
inquisitive,
bated breath holding the question
like a weight above my chest.

I sift through emotions
not yet claimed, not yet realized,
ask me to tell a story—
I give you lines,
shapes, threads—
ask me to feel as if intertwined—
and suddenly
confusion
curves, angles, angles, angles—
geometric pressure
plastered across the mind’s blackboard
for only the smart kids
to decipher
or break trying.

She waits.
Silence stretches.
I describe my emotions
as yarn—
plastered, tangled,
not yet ready to be seen—
so she labels them for me.

I agree.
For ease,
for peace—
but I know:
my rage is not white,
not pale,
it is blistering red
like the sun ready to explode
like my nature ready to reveal itself
not to her,
not to medicine,
but to me,
and you,
in the hope
that we can collectively come alive.

We can collectively—
abort the room,
abort the nature,
abort the lie—
tear the equations,
unsort the yarn,
let the fire of being
spill
in angles, in threads, in sun-colored rage.