What We're Carrying

I reached for the car door,

felt the shock, felt the pour

of electricity through my hand.

My finger recoiled. I understand

now—I carry charge,

dangerous, at large

with voltage I don't know

I have until the flow

of contact, until I touch

someone and send so much

electricity through their body

that they flinch. I embody

this threat without meaning

to. The sting

of static, the ring

of charge that builds when

you walk through dry air, when

your skin yields

all its moisture, when rooms

designed to steal the bloom

from your body work

in the dark.

Just static. But it made me

think about how we carry

voltage inside us, how we're

dangerous to people, how

one touch, how we send

shocks through someone's

body and they step back.

My finger stopped aching.

The car door was metal.

The shock already fading.

But I thought about

every time I've been

the shock to someone,

every time I've sent

electricity through

their body without

meaning to, how they've

stepped back and

I didn't know why,

how I didn't see

the damage I left.

We're all carrying

charge. All dangerous.

All walking around

ready to hurt someone

without meaning to,

ready to send that shock

through their body

when we make contact,

and we stand there knowing

we hurt them, knowing

we're the source

of the sting, knowing

we carry this thing

inside us and

we can't control it.