Posted in Black Feminism, Black Woman, Feminism, Mental Health, Rape Culture

How Much Pain Can One Soul Bear

I am not Jesus Christ

I can not bear the lashes and the whips and the taunting and the feeling of my flesh being ripped from my body 

I am not Jesus Christ 

I can not bear the agony and the pain of this soul longing to save every person I come across and see 

I am not Jesus Christ , I can not forgive you time after time for breaking me over and over 

I can not bear another story of a rape victim . I can not watch her bottom lip tremble and her eyes fill with tears, as her feet shuffle from one leg to the other because the emotional pain is as heavy on the physical that she can not stand up straight . I can not bear to look at her as she struggles to find words that make sense to what has happened . I can not bare to listen to her speaking her truth one aching syllable at a time . I don’t want to look at her, I don’t want to hear her… I can not bear this pain . 

I can not bear the pain of the suicidal boy. The boy whose heart aches from the time he wakes until the time he sleeps . I see him sitting on the edge of this building , feet dangling 20 stories high as he watches cars below pass by. I can not bare to watch him every night as he stands up to leave that ledge because one day he will jump instead of walk away. I can not bear his pain , and neither can he.

I can not bear the pain of the cutter , the people who keep a box of razors in hidden drawers next to bandaids and gauze . The children with the long sleeve shirts and hoodies in July’s heat. The teenagers and adults that no longer wear hoodies but now don’t wear bikinis . For everyone believed the art had ended , it simply switched its canvas. 

I can not bear the pain of the pill popper. The pill popping mental health chick that takes a pill for the ups and the pill for the downs , the pill for the sleep, and the pill for the in betweens. Night after night day after day she hopes these pills will one day make her okay. She’s not on the edge staring down at the ground, she walks back and forth and back and forth along the very same ledge. She feels a tether something holding her back from the final jump and those are the pills. They’ve chained her, so she takes one pill for the up and another for the day, one for sleep and one for everything in between . But one day she’ll wait and she will take every pill she has because what’s holding her down from jumping can also make her fly .

I can not bear the pain of the girl wrapped in bedsheets . Her legs spread as she moans in ecstasy for the 9th time this week. She looks down to see a face she can’t recognize . A face attached to a body she has no connection to . She is here for her urges , she is here to purge her pain in ecstasy the only way she knows how . Her mind numbs, her emotions settle and her body takes over . Each flick of the tongue, each suck of a breast , the stroke of a dick- she finds herself full . Feeling elated and no longer full of unborn pain. But when it ends , she must find new bed sheets, another unfamiliar face , she has to get this high again to help her bare all this pain. 

There is but so much pain one soul can truly bear .

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