A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

It begins as a burning sensation

under my cheeks, behind my eyes. 

Scarlet flush. I feel it

before you see it. A tingling

as though the skin on my face

is not my own, is sloughing off

to reveal whatever is true

but with the understanding that 

whatever truth this is

will not be comfortable or pretty 

and for that I will be judged

and found lacking. The weight

of salt water condensing

behind my globes threatens

downpour and destruction,

ah but I have years of practice

at building levies and dam walls,

and they can always be heightened.

But at what cost? The puddle

of shame becomes a pool

becomes a dam, a lake, a sea, 

an ocean, and I hold it all within.

It is an immensity, and it is heavy,

but I keep holding it because 

I see no other option.

It is not easy, but it is just

what I do, what I have always done,

I add one more thing to the pile

of things which must be held. 

And sometimes: a leak,

then damage control. Carrying

this is exhausting – I can’t

deny that, but how do I 

put this down when it is

all I know?