Looking in the wrong places

For years we have been looking in the wrong places.
Clever scientists in white coats with pens in their top pockets
Promised to save us from our madness if they could just
Hoe our heads, weed our white matter. They’ve been
Looking for the place where all the dark things go
The terrors, the fears, the memories, the madness.
Where does it hide, reside, inside?
Man says the brain, the brain is a pain,
Logico rules so it must be there.
Fix the machine, oil it well,
Stick it back together, the nuts and bolts.
But woman she knows in her blood, in her flow
In the pulses of the womb and her stomach turned to stone
In the clench of a fist and the callousing of a heart
In the terror of a tumour…
The body is her unconscious.
This soft and supple tapestry of miracles
That is where we store our shit
The landfill, dump of our lives
No temple this,  we use our bodies as a dump
No one taught us to empty the trash.
And so it builds up
The shadows, the dark stuff
In our veins and clogging our pores.
When we cross our legs and bite our tongues like we were told
When we turn a cheek and choke back tears
When we swallow the poison spewed by a lover
When we fake an orgasm and our body screams No
But our throat is silent.
And the good girl goes mad.
The body holds the unconscious and nobody knew.
Except us… but they couldn’t hear us.
They just called us mad.

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