My professor asked me, Is man a political animal? I responded, Adam married politics the second he decided Eve’s body was political. I am a product of my environment. And my environment thinks my existence is an opinion.
Politics are the lips I’ve touched. The loud yellow pills I take. The words I whisper and scream. The silent doctors’ offices I visit. Heaven is a wound thrown at the wounded. The bible is a knife. Burning a city of ashes. Blood is political. A bandage for the powerful. Emotions are as natural as lungs. But we treat them as smoke.
My body, I’m told, should change is political. Too big. Too wide. Too manly. Too desirable. Too disgusting. My love has and will always be political. Suffering is political. My tears, I’m told not to shed, are political. The way I feel in a world of unfeeling. The way I feel breaks bones. It dismantles lies. Through the creases in my rocky eyes.
My success is political. I am simultaneously broken and breaking. A disease and a cure. Privileged and oppressed. You aren’t broken just because you break. You aren’t evil simply because you take. Sometimes giving is the crime. Suffering of others. Is ignored. Until it is brought to your doorstep. You can run from politics while it eats the people you think deserve it. But politics is a hunger. It won’t stop eating. It won’t forget you, no matter how hard you try to stay silent.