This week, a poem burst free. Give it a listen too if you can. There’s background info on what inspired this piece.
I will give a content note that this poem directly references self-inflicted pain. There are no depictions of self-harm, only what I describe as self-inflicted pain.
The title of this pieces comes from a play on an Animals As Leaders album, The Madness of Many. For your listening pleasure, listen to “Inner Assassins” after reading this piece.
Enjoy the ride.
The Madness of Self/Ouroboros
Kenyatta Muzzanni, 2023
The positive thing about my pain is that it’s mainly self-inflicted.
My daily life isn’t marred by a partner, parent, or pompous prick with pain to inflict. No. The source of my pain lies inside.
Sometimes I can predict it before the moment comes. A premonition deep and foreboding, feeling more like a transmission.
If I know it's coming, I prepare. Set myself up to deal with the wear and tear with pain meds, band aids, and vodka mixed with Perrier.
Even in pain, my voice is controlled. Smooth like sapphire I relay, "I saw it coming." It helps reduce the inflammation. Despite the phrase bubbling in my gut because of constant regurgitation.
***
The negative thing about my pain is that it's mainly self-inflicted.
An absentminded slip of the knife at the kitchen sink. Crimson drops from my wrist staining the quote on this morning’s Yogi tea strip. That scar took twice as long to heal.
An unquiet thought repeated over, and over, and over, and over— in fact I’m still reeling. That scar is in a constant state of hurting and healing.
This pain is also preceded by a premonition, though my rituals that have grown out of them are framed as superstition.
Some call it obsessive-compulsive. I call it keeping myself from becoming too destructive.
***
At times I ask to speak to the Manager. I’m constantly rapping on the doors of my mind looking to find the version of myself to blame. These words are a testament to that. An ongoing conversation. A perpetual refrain.
The body can get used to self-inflicted pain.
While I incubated in my mother’s womb, her body was caught in a war so complex it’s considered autoimmune. Her body tore itself apart just to stitch itself back together again. And again. And again. And again—
After all, what is an autoimmune disease if not the body inflicting pain upon itself?
Perhaps it’s the reason I’m used to attacking myself; I was born out of both womb and wound.
***
Outcomes from self-inflicted pain rarely favor the Self.
I often think being the source of our own pain is one the most human things we can do. Our bodies do it to us. We do it back. And we don’t stop at the flesh.
A snake eating its own tail personified. Perhaps only a feeble attempt.
The thing about my pain is that it’s mainly self-inflicted.
Maybe it’s the madness of many. Maybe it’s the madness of Self.