We see risks to get hurt
but we do not see
how we risk to hurt.
We hurt ourselves,
our fellow human beings,
the earth and in fact,
all that hurts us.
We do not care
about our bodies.
We consume food that makes fat,
stomachache, and diabetes.
We lay down on our couch
to relax.
Our body stiffens,
we avoid feeling it
and disconnect with ourselves.
We stay home,
as much as we can,
no one should see us,
no one can hurt us,
nothing will put us in danger.
Once we go out,
we feel as victims,
assaulted by the omnipresent malevolence.
We blame others,
the government,
the world
who did not protect us
and has put us at risk.
Our neighbor
who gives us a glance.
He must have pejorative thoughts.
The government
allowing refugees to join our country.
It only takes days for them
to become criminals.
The construction company
that did not put warnings on the swing
saying that one must hold on to the ropes.
It will be their fault
if we fall off and graze our knee.
The heat wave destabilizes our circulation.
They should have stopped global warming.
We are not responsible.
We are not meant to be
self-responsible humans.
We do not take responsibility
for us,
for our fellow human beings,
for the earth.
We hide behind others,
behind rules,
behind conventions.
We do not risk to live.
I have enough.
I want to break out.
I want to go out and risk to be seen.
I do not want to care if people think I am strange.
I want to eat food that does good to me and to the world and
I don’t want to care if I break conventions.
I will hold on to the lines when
I think that I need to.
I will swing on the swing,
my hands in the air,
enjoy the thrill of the limit.
I will slip,
I will fall and hit the ground.
I will feel the cold mud on my naked knees.
My white airy blouse will be marked by green grass stains,
at every point where the green grass stroked my chest.
My curly blond hair will be streaked with brown speckles.
An acorn will lay next to my eye
and the playground blurry in front of me.
The swing will continue rising and falling,
rising and falling, rising and falling.
It will hurt.
And I will observe the pain,
thinking through my body, finger to toe,
toe to finger, finger to toe,
to feel where it hurts.
A part of me will enjoy this intimacy,
only me and my body,
the cold mud,
and the repetitive sound of the rusty swing.
A tear will drop from my eye.
I will almost be surprised by the tear.
I had forgotten the emotional shock,
just for some seconds.
Maybe I will need a hug
and someone that strokes my tear.
The scar will stay.
I will remember the freedom of the swings,
every time I see my naked knee,
and my hands in the air.