He swings
left then right
at a rival revealed
behind a fictional fissure.
An unfair fight,
the 40 watt bulb
does little
to clarify.
Drops of rust
decorate the rim
that pinches the glass
just enough not to crack.
Just enough. Just enough.
A fracture only he detects,
the consequence of contrition.
In this windowless room,
it is his mind that shows attrition.
The dulling frame,
once auric and gleaming,
stands stained from age,
but steadfast in its stance.
And in its image,
a portrait of a man so broken.
He is split in half.
Split in half.
Is this when the training wheels come off?
The moment you let me
cross the road on my own?
I’ll look both ways, I promise.
Left, right, and left again.
You left again.
Just when I thought
I could have you both to myself
after having shared you with strangers.
Oh, how I couldn’t share so much of me
because you were never really free.
Is this when I’m thrown in the pool
to sink or swim?
I never really did learn.
Too afraid to trust you to hold me
with my head just above the water.
I know I never made things easy.
And that never did change.
Too many years of being told I was strange, difficult, weird.
My only protectors
became the two I feared.
Scared of the judgement
I pushed the limits of defiance,
crossing lines just to cross them,
picking fights I’ll never win, but never lose.
All I wanted was to be.
Is this the real cutting of the cord?
The one that was wrapped around my neck when I was born?
Forever grateful you saved my life that day.
But I can no longer be sorry I live my life
my way.
If only I could express
the way my shoulders tense
whenever I’m in your presence,
or the mere thought of having to be.
The pretending gets harder
because it requires me to,
yet again,
do something for you.
I lie awake with questions
I’ll never receive answers to,
hoping to not repeat your mistakes,
a challenge I must take.
It’s not the overbearing nature of your care,
nor the way no thought is left to spare.
It’s there mere fact that when I speak
it’s just a child you’ll always see.
When you reach the time
when that light turns on,
when you believe the self-reflection,
what it tells you, what you see,
I hope you find the help you need.
We are not put here with the
wherewithal to heal,
or express how we feel.
One generation can’t teach another
when they weren’t taught to deal
with the single hardest thing there is to do:
confront our trauma
before it spreads from me to you.
There is no guide
to explain
this cyclical pain.
And standing up to it can feel
like standing in front of a train
moving at full speed,
hoping that you’ll be
the switch track you need.
But please…
Know that to not know
is completely okay,
as long as you seek the answers
to the questions that keep you at bay,
on the edge of pride and peace,
I hope you finally can begin to find relief.
We can’t mourn
before we’re asked
to mourn again.
We can’t grieve before
we have to believe
it’s happened
again.
We can’t catch our breaths
before the deaths
accumulate.
It’s far too late.
Far too late.
And all the while
some carry on and smile
in some acceptance
of the norm.
We can’t live our
lives worrying,
I’m told.
But when we will grasp
that our inability
for empathy
holds us back
from being
the very kind of people
our children lack.
Compassion is the compass
that will guide us
to a place not far
if we’re brave enough to
hold compassion
behind our teeth
and in our hearts.
Too many beds suddenly empty tonight.
Those kids too young to comprehend
the evil of one man,
and our willingness to arm him.
The harm lives on
with moms and dads
whose hearts cannot handle
the holes they are now scarred with.
Look them in the eye
and ask them why.
Look them in the eye
and ask them why.
Those who see
children shot dead
and choose the status quo
instead.
I’m sure that they’ll pretend
thoughts and prayers can make amends,
as people argue relentlessly
over and over again.
But talking is a sin
because what we need is a cure.
And one may never be found
because a cure must be searched for.
Look them in the eye
and ask them why.
Look them in the eye
and ask them why.
Like a faucet
the thoughts,
they pour out
like the water
that drips
from my eyes,
heavy from the day,
I am tired of this way,
this path we’ve chosen,
death over life.
I don’t want to live more gratefully.
I want the luxury to take my life for granted.
I don’t want to be reminded of our fragility.
I want the chance of pain to disappear.
We deserve to exist on our own terms.
Two rights make a wrong
when your right
suppresses mine.
Can we rewrite in real time
the rules of this arrangement,
the way that we engage with
all the people we call strangers?
Perhaps we’ve more in common
then we’re often told to believe.
Perhaps we’d figure that out
if we’d stop judging and just speak.
But oh, we only listen
to find space to interject
instead of just listening
to provide space to understand.
To understand all the things
we don’t understand at all.
We must choose to comprehend
or comprehend we’ll fall.