The Weight of Truth
The details were laid out on the gurney
for his kids to sift through, like
pieces of glass
in his hair, the note
in his pocket
He took too many pills
then tried to gas himself
and our family dog
Lucky lived.
Dad dialed for help, but
died having his stomach pumped
Half-truths like this are told
to spare children the details.
The full weight was broken
into bits I could lift
once I tore grief and anger
into smaller pieces still
Your Dad
jumped out
of an ambulance
on the high way
en route to be convicted.
I have worn my heart out
wrestling with this
I drop it
Feels right to release these ashes
like all the apologies, the excuses,
the verdict that need not burden us...
Sometimes pain
weighs less than the justice
we inflict upon ourselves
Sometimes...the right choice is the heaviest
Photo by Egor Ivlev on Unsplash
#Suicide #Justice #Trauma #poetry #truth #grief
The Contagion
Number One-Forty-Five hurt the most.
For if I could have saved them,
Why did they die, oh why.
If they have truly demonstrated,
Their existence to me, then me
Myself is out of sorts, not them.
Every suicidal opus is contagious,
Wanderer’s to suicide’s door,
Existentialists sweep the floor.
And then there is me, lost
At Sea, drowning under you
And me, my own anatomy.
Now desperate I hate my life,
Lend me a halter or a knife,
All my griefs to this are jolly,
Naught so damn’d as melancholy.
Blameless, Harmful? How?
At the next hour, harm is blameless since it has done all but
destroy film ran-out pictures names built immense
warehouses for the miserly occupants outside has no fear, blessed
door smallish pretty once the malaise
leave property onsite, closing up blocks in the dark
looked for guidance
long panting thick spayed
licks soaked against a flicker, foggy,
has the ugly feeling that a witness
does not
have reservations except how nakedly
my mouth lines up put behind impressions
skies no teeth tonguemeat goes the little
crooked fence and there is a person who is
witness behind low fade
seeing inside where air is a godless
lakeshore, and blight there is increasing calm here
nightly, action is kindred nigh, formed dropping harm alarm down hard rumor: does the witness have a newfound market ploy, creates scarcity, scared?
windows.
no harm go on and ask not single reel was rightly not talk for a place another place, spines eat months
In the face of volumes not a thing was learnt— images birds, fly frosted up high where there is no place for
The outline leaving, but rightly also, it should, witless stabs rain gloss: the world never
Staying and waiting for pangs,
Enclosed birthstone palms inform nothing wrongdoing goes without future explanation;
foul dwelling without a chaos: speechless loud
Sadness not for what is lasting behind each hourly reminder
no one needs leftovers raining
indoors seditious during cold
district, no one important but looks can serve.
Distinct!
There is a witness safeguarding an observation round
a name that has no recollection, but has
permeable outlines once breaking inside
past a line where no kind minute word
escapes alive similar places, not withdrawn
a witness who degrades a stockpile
streaks of defensive lanes strike how its comes for famished feelings
do not keep place, even sorted during yearly repeating.
going forward, seeing at the next hour
is thinner in how better blindness works in
patterns enclosed, unfolds all but here
sounding awful having such an orchestra of thinner
returns.
A Walking Trigger Warning
Your eyes were the first thing I feared before I even saw your body.
The desperate hunger of a soul
that had not seen daylight in years.
I never thought that a light could go out in a person still breathing.
I would wander the night
trying to make hazy the strong bite of loss you filled in me that soulless night,
some years ago now.
You still have entrance to my mind.
I still remember your eyes.
I still remember the words
you spoke before you took.
And most of all
I remember
that woman,
who once was me,
became not me.
That is the tragedy of most takings.
It ends the very parts of you,
you didn’t know you loved.
It hardens your fingers.
They dig into ground,
lest you be lifted towards clouds full of thunder.
Where there is no right, there is no wrong.
Only the loud, painful truth,
that you were once whole
and now,
you are not.
What say you?
So what say you?
How's it feel to be bullied? Called names, then labeled?
Doesn't feel too nice, does it?
Foolish names, they compose
Silly things to devalue your worth.
Here comes the idiot!
Here comes the loser!
Here comes the fool!
They'll say it hundreds of times over to convince you it's true.
But what say you?
Can you handle a blatant lie?
Rightly, put them in their place
so that they know you're not buying?
Can you do it?
I'm sure you can, so give it a try.
Because no one deserves to be and or stay bullied,
and have others with bad intentions, mess with their minds.
trauma
it could be
something as small
as a scent
the smell of
bleach
as it swirls in the toilet
washing away
years of grime
but it'll never
clean you out of me.
it could be
the clinging of sheets
heavy like a body
over me.
it could be
driving through a red light
and imagining shattered glass
or seeing snow
and remembering
skid marks.
it could be
fireworks on the fourth of july
that send blood pouring through
your fingers
as you remember
a bullet wound
that no longer exists.
it could be
chemicals
sprayed on grass
that remind you of
a different chemical
in a fight long over.
it could be an emoji
sent through text
that reminds you
of an abusive ex.
what does it mean
to be traumatized?
is it a caricature of panic?
can we ward it off with
trigger warnings and psychoactive drugs?
we cannot categorize it,
as it spreads, amorphous
through our veins,
and though the circumstances
may not match
we always end up
the same way:
broken
with a system that doesn't dare
to support us.
healing is a journey
we must take
on our own
because
therapy is expensive
and justice is never served
in neat packages
with our name stamped on the front.
criminals may never be convicted,
wars may never be won,
yet still we are expected
to rise.
Trauma
Lightning never strikes the same place twice
but this is no guarantee in life
For the sky's thunderous roar is loud
while lightning lurks silently amongst the clouds
Life is a beast without strife
whose bark is worse than its bite
But once bitten twice shy
it leaves one breathless, gaping toward the sky
VICTorious I aM
Just sitting here day after day,
Wasting away, waiting for something to change,
But it won't.
My mind it spins, then loneliness sets in, I want the pain to end,
I'm bending but not yet broke.
With tired eyes I search for signs, but the light it blinds,
And i begin to cry; not ever really realizing why, then I choke.
The air it's SO thin, I can barely breath in, more tears begin to form and then,
In my mind I begin to ask if it's all a nasty joke...
Were things really supposed to be this way? My life full of brokenness, tears and pain? Of disease that will never really go away, but instead will stay, making themselves right at home?
For it seems to me that the mind is not free because the demons don't flee, but instead fight fiercely preying on what's left of one's hope.
And here I find myself, standing in the aftermath of the gore,
In the midst of the filth and entrails that it leaves smeared behind me on the floor.
Yet still I stand resiliently,
Watching myself bleed yet again.
Watching as everything that I have left inside,
Is slowly giving up the fight, inch by inch until there is no more.
But I won't lay down, no I won't lay down and allow it take,
Instead I'll stand here and proudly fake, that smile which is upon my face.
As I reassure everyone that I'm ok, because I am, ok.
No really, I am o.k.
How? Because I know that at times I will hurt and I will cry, that I may bleed and one day die, but I will NEVER get back this moment in time, so I won't...
I won't waste precious minutes on tears, or on the pain, on the worries or fears,
On frivolous things that are to remain unknown til later days, even years, maybe not ever.
So a master of disguise I'll be,
The many faces one might see,
Should they closely be observing me.
And oh, the little white lies I'll have to tell,
Like blatantly denying that I'm not well,
Not to mention hiding the affects it has on me and the toll it takes on my weakend body.
But I will fight, tirelessly, both inside and out,
This nonstop war that brings about unfathomable fatigue, sorrows, heartaches and pains...
the anxiety I fight day after day.
And though some days I may carry it well, remember that a smile can only tell one small part of a bigger story, and sometimes I may seem alright but I will never be able to give up my fight. No surrender, not anytime.
And VICTorious I aM over anxiety, even if it's only for a moment in my head,
And you'd better believe it because you can get this soldier won't stop fighting, no, not until I'm dead.
Easy Lovers, Shared Custody.
A beautiful day.
White sashes and ivory candles.
Dresses and suits.
Groomsmen.
Till Death do us part.
In sickness and in health.
The party raged.
Food passed by in trays.
Champagne by the cases.
A night to remember.
Phase II.
New house.
New mortgage.
New cats.
Piss everywhere but the litter box.
Babies arrive.
They cry.
Shit.
Grow.
Eat.
Repeat.
Grow again.
Sleep through the night.
Are they dead?
Hardly.
Sleepwalking.
Red dress.
Phase III.
A life of crime and sitcoms.
Elementary school.
Field day.
Cheater cheater, pumpkin cheater.
Gym class.
Book fair.
Sickness.
Health.
Fallout.
Divorce.
Kids don’t understand.
A distraction, maybe?
New house.
New city.
New school.
“Stuff.”
Building the bookcase.
Emotional wreck.
Two stories in a split house.
Sixth grade.
Writing.
New friends.
They left.
New ones?
Not yet.
More writing.
Halloween.
School dances.
Girls are weird, but cool.
Christmas.
Girls aren’t weird anymore.
Summer.
Overweight.
Yearbook pictures.
Halloween again.
Winter formal.
Phase IV.
High school.
JROTC.
Writing.
More friends?
Nope, they’re the same.
Beach trip.
Christmas.
Covid.
Covid.
Covid.
Easy lovers, right?
No.
You moved too quickly.
Or didn’t move at all.
No shared custody.
Times change.
People change.
Still overweight.
New stories.
An idea.
I’m breathless.
Finite.
30 pages done.
To the desk drawer it goes.
Easy lovers.
Barely see each other.
A decade and a half.
Almost.
A new beginning.
New year.
High hopes.
Low expectations.
Start the journey.
Broken house.
Cracked system.
Four years.
Snow storms.
Autumn leaves.
Finished writing.
Overjoyed.
To be continued.
My journey is new.