By Richard Dulgheriu
Resentment
I don’t remember
when I became angry.
That’s the problem.
There was no morning
when I woke up
and decided
to hate the world a little.
It happened quietly.
A little from my father.
A little from being poor.
A little from watching people
have things
I was taught not to ask for.
A little from every time
I swallowed something
because men like us
were supposed to handle it.
Years passed.
I called it ambition.
I called it strength.
I called it not giving a fuck.
Anything
but resentment.
Now I’m thirty-two,
and sometimes
someone who has done nothing wrong
says the wrong thing,
and I can feel twenty years
answering them.
That’s when I understand—resentment doesn’t always remember
who hurt you.
It just remembers
that somebody did.
* * *
Old Boots
My boots feel heavy.
Heavier than yesterday.
And yesterday, they were heavier
than the day before that.
But I keep wearing them.
They’ve walked miles and miles with me.
Through mud and rain.
Through dust and concrete.
Through cold mornings
and long days that seemed to have no end.
I don’t remember when I bought them.
I don’t remember the first day
they touched the ground.
I only know they’ve been with me
for a long fucking time.
And now they’re worn out.
The leather is tired.
The soles are tired.
Maybe I am too.
But tomorrow morning
I’ll put them on again.
Because there are some things in life
you don’t replace
just because they’re worn out.
You keep wearing them
until they can’t carry you anymore.
