You Don’t Talk About It.

by Leigh Cheak

You’ve probably read Fight Club,
so you know the first rule, and the second.
I get a pass because I’m a woman
and not a member.
But every woman has a degree
of violence in their make-up.

Some days, I imagine knocking
the air from my boss’ lungs until
her chest is a vacuum.
I resist the urge to break my father’s ribs.
I want to hit my lover as hard as I can.
My fingers curl into balls of brass,
and I want to go ape-shit on a stranger’s nose.
But this is not because of something I read.
I’m a kettle keeping steam and I don’t have
a whistle hole to keep the pressure low.
This is my life, and it’s ending one minute at a time.

If you’ve read Fight Club, you know the story
was never about Fight Club.
Fight Club just sort-of happened.
It taught us men weren’t meant to be caged,
or coddled, or comfortable. Men were made
to work, and sweat, and swear, and fight.
There is no in-between.
Fathers are gods and most men never had either.
Women are invisible or Marla Singer.

Sometimes, you have to make things explode.
Sometimes, you are the thing that explodes.

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