Some Cheer the Bull

I'm entranced with using bullfighting as a metaphor for my mental illness. There are many who watch me struggle, a few who risk to help me, but in the end, I'm alone. I train for being alone. Many watch, but none comprehend the full experience as I do. For near eleven years, I fight the bull every day; most spectators cheer the matador, but some cheer the bull.

I've written two poems recently on the subject:



SOME CHEER THE BULL

I wait at the moment of truth
my sharp espada in one hand
a red muleta in the other

my only arms against my troubles:
the sword and cape are always close
to guard against the charging bull

the ring and crowd remain the same
as people stand and shout their cheers
some cheer the bull, but most cheer me

the bull is strong where I am weak
there's too much weight behind the horns
kept sharp despite their frequent use

each pass comes closer to my skin
as shouts for blood grow louder
the horns, near hips, get stronger

the shoulder grazes my left hip
they struck my right hip yesterday
and put me under very fast

I can't stop fate or alter it
I plunge my sword deep in the bull
my grip is lost, it charges still

my heart beats fast as horns dig in
my eyelids close as I fall down
I sleep like death now that I'm drugged

the nurses clean the ring
and dissipate the crowd
the tempo slows a beat

it won't be slow forever
my spirit never dies:
they can't take that away

my sword is in these verses
my cape is in my heart
I'm ready for tomorrow

I'll fight the bull again

***

A MATADOR OF FEARS

I am a matador of fears
for thirty years
or thirty seconds
hope will be my sword
I fight my fear of love
for peace
for vengeance
for you
for me
but not hope
hope is my sword
with mercy dispensed at its tip
I wish the same for myself
But when none is forthcoming
I wait
At the tip of hope
On the neck of desire,
Cursing beneath my breath
Because there is no ring, no bull, and no crowd
I'm alone with my demons
And they don't sleep.