Please Don’t Thank Me

Photo: @koshuphotography via @Unsplash

“Thank you for sharing this.”

“Thank you for saying that.”

“Thank you for speaking up.”

“Thank you for your boldness.”

“Thank you for your honesty.”

“Thank you.”

Please don’t thank me.

You shouldn’t have to thank me for being

Decent

Aware

Honest

The truth is, I am embarrassed by your gratitude.

(in this, I realize my embarrassment makes the conversation about me yet again)

I am embarrassed it took so long for me to really get it

and speak up in this way,

Embarrassed or not, I am speaking up all the same.

I’m sorry it took so long.

In truth, it is me who should thank you.

I should thank you

for continuing to speak even when you thought I wasn’t listening

for breaking it down for me … One. More. Time.

so I could hear it and finally understand.

For a smart woman,

I’ve been shockingly slow on the uptake.

Thank you for not giving up,

although I am aware you had no choice but to continue.

Your ‘thank you’ makes me realize

you haven’t expected help from me

and you’ve been disappointed by my relative silence

too many times before.

Maybe you even had given up.

Maybe you’ve just tried to live your life,

at least until the next Black person died

at the hands of those I’d been taught are here to serve and protect.

Maybe you’d stopped hoping for change

until the next time one too many impediments

were thrown in your way as you went to simply secure your vote.

Maybe you’d found your peace

until you were trigged and traumatized again,

only moments later.

So, as much as I appreciate that my actions are seen,

please, please don’t thank me for them.

I am far more than fashionably late

to the party.

I’m sorry it took so long.

~ Mk Michaels, 2020  

Love in the Time of Cholera

I'm prickly

squirmy

and keenly aware of the salt and pepper curls

falling about my shoulders.

It’s more salt than pepper these days,

but the seductive tickle makes me want to go sleeveless or even

bare.

I want to whisper

Throaty and deep

“Mmmmm …”

but it sounds ridiculous

in my empty home.

As if I could practice

and reacquaint myself

with a part of me I’d thought was

finished.

I consider the curves

of a body I’ve not considered in quite some time

and wonder if she could find comfort,

ecstasy even,

in the plump mounds and valleys that have been

with me my whole life,

still riper for all my years and

thick.

I catch myself second guessing and

on the edge of tears.

For what though?

Need? Perhaps.

Fear? Maybe.

Embarrassment?  Definitely.

I’m a grown ass woman and

grown ass women don’t get swoony

giddy

twitchy,

particularly in the middle of a pandemic.

Damn.

~ Mk Michaels, 2020

Metastisis

me·tas·ta·size
məˈtastəˌsīz/
verb (used without object), me·tas·ta·sized, me·tas·ta·siz·ing.

1. Pathology.(of malignant cells or disease-producing organisms) to spread to other parts of the body by way of the blood or lymphatic vessels or membranous surfaces.

2. to spread injuriously:

3. to transform, especially into a dangerous form.

Long after
I excised you,
the after effects
remained​.
For months
I carved​ out chunks
of necrotic flesh
until I saw the
raw, pink
tissue beneath.

I've had heartbreaks before.
Trials,
losses, and
devastations,
but never have I
been so depleted
by another.

The metastisis of you
spread
from heart
to organs
to blood
to bone,
deeply taking up residence.
Extreme measures
were required.

Radical amputation
followed by chemotherapy,
my only choice,
but worthwhile
considering
the alternative
of allowing
that cancer to
continue to wreck havoc
in my being,
my family,
my world.

Although the price
of severing you
was dear,
and I continue to
dig my way clear,
the gratitude
for losing
the necrotic limb
that was us
is great
and the poison
required
to cleanse me
of you
flows sweetly
through my veins.

Remission
will be mine. 

~ Mk Michaels