the stories we carry
While I was on the treadmill the other day, listening to my angry workout playlist (one of the few things keeping me sane these days), I felt something bubble up inside me.
"LABOUR - the cacophony" by Paris Paloma had started playing. The lyrics pulsed:
The calloused skin on my hands is cracking
If our love ends, would that be a bad thing?
And the silence haunts our bed chamber
You make me do too much labour
All day, every day, therapist, mother, maid
Nymph, then a virgin, nurse, then a servant
Just an appendage, live to attend him
So that he never lifts a finger
24/7 baby machine
So he can live out his picket-fence dreams
It's not an act of love if you make her
You make me do too much labour
What was this feeling? It was like a deep, heavy, clamoring rage, swirling in my stomach and pounding in my chest. But here's the thing: I'm not sure it belonged to me. At least, not all of it.
