We Are Still Growing

Fury

You sit under a bleak yellow light.
The lampshade is white, and hideous.
You back aches. You ignore it.
You play with small round magnets, the kind
You've always been told could kill you,
"Rip apart your insides," they always said.
They are small, shiny, like little berries,
Bright, to entice children and keep them occupied.
God hands you more,
You sort them into little strings.

You listen intently to the fury
Of those that came before.
You wonder if they were angry for the same reasons.
You wonder if they were angry at the magnets.
You wonder if they were angry at God.

The magnets are small, soothing.
They slide and click into place.
Suddenly they don't seem so nice anymore;
The clicking infuriates you -
You want throw them somewhere, anywhere -
You put them down.

God is angry, and we are too.
Listen to the music. You can scream too.
God cannot stop you.
The tiny magnetic orbs can't restrain you.
You raise your voice.
You say all the words you were taught not to.

You throw a tantrum anyone would be proud of,
We throw a tantrum.
And then we gently scoop up the beads
And we keep going.

We keep going until we can bear it no longer,
And then we scream, cry, yell, protest
Until god has no choice but to hear us.