Crushed
It doesn't scare others
that I like the slaughter
of flowers,
and find it worthy
of our center table.
But I worry
about the ants
in funeral procession
who come
with respect
to their end,
beneath a thumb
that gently rearranges
my fragrant wilting bouquet
--This symbol
of our infatuation
with Life & Death--
only my Heart
will understand,
in the great unsaid
static shock divide,
how it is
Love also dies.
Our chapter needs an end…
No goodbye
no ending
just living
in between
No left
no right
we are
standing
still
freeze
like a breeze
No wind
no storm
ear-deafening
silent
When are you
breaking
the silence
and giving us
a voice
again?
To scream
to yell
the celebration
of our connection
But now
we’re disconnected
over and over
again
and again and again
When can we
loose
the cord
of disconnection
Just repairing it
strengthening it
surrounded
well-founded
rooted with love
The connection
we used to have
unbreakable
stable
are you able
to maintain
to sustain
this time
without
loosening ends
loosening threads?
I don’t think
you can
so I need to
live again
a fountain
of tears
and fears
it would be
an ending
a goodbye…
©® SunRise - 07/13/2024 All rights reserved
Three Pathetic Words
Don't tell me you love me.
When tears fall and my heart is sliced to bloody ribbons
When the foundations of the world quake beneath my feet
When I stumble
and fall
When my soul lies rent upon our stained bedroom floor
When the darkness devours
and the call of that final step off the edge of a cliff beckons warmer than embrace
When my screams refract in eyes and lips sewn in a tight line
When a beacon of hell-fire holds more allure than the drudgery of days beneath an unforgiving sun
When the words won't cease their devouring stir
When the quiet is louder than ten thousand voices raised in song
When I cannot even hear the echo of those voices upon the cathedral walls
and the entire earth is painted in shades of sickly gray...
Don't tell me you love me.
Don't sell me the empty promise of those pathetic words.
Don't pat my hand and murmur assurances and treat me like a bird with broken wings.
Weep with me.
Ride upon the waves of ground bucking beneath our feet.
Fall beside me and clutch me to your chest. I promise to hold you right back.
Bring the cleaning bucket and glue and we'll spend the afternoon washing away the stains and sticking the broken parts of each other back together until we're whole.
Step with me into the darkness. I don't need a flashlight, so long as I can feel your hand in mine.
Leap into the sea at my side and we'll laugh as we sink beneath the waves.
Open your eyes and see that sometimes we both need those silent screams.
Walk with me through the gates of hell and help me seize our dormant dreams.
Be the paper upon which I might spill the words in a hurricane of poetic rain.
Sing with me, so that our voices might drown out the sound of that terrible silence.
Sit with me and let me hurt. Let me paint the world in crimson shades of my pain. We'll hurt together. Heal together.
Don't tell me you love me.
Tell me you understand.
And maybe then, I'll believe you next time you say those three pathetic words.
Show me you love me
and together
we'll soar.
I’m Fine.
(trigger warning: suicide and discrimination)
I tell myself it's fine.
I repeat those words every single day.
I try to make them true.
I lie to make them true.
You ask me if I'm ok. "Yes, I am ok." I say, taking the time to envision the letters and their sounds in my head before speaking. I wonder if others have a hard time. If they think talking is hard, if they understand that stuttering and blanking and waiting for the words to come are a daily occurrence for me. Do I understand? Explaining why I can't talk is hard. I have to go through the process of talking to do that.
But, it - is - ok. Think, force yourself to think in a different way than is natural. Read the words in your mind as you talk. Animate the letters soaring in. That will make it interesting enough, right? Pay attention: think about how each syllable fits together before saying anything and never talk before thinking. And sometimes, never talk at all. But its ok. Everything is fine. It has to be, right? I can't not hold it together. Letting myself come undone at the seems would be a tragedy at best. That's what everyone says... or is it just me? I can't think. I can't come undone. Aaahhh! I feel like I'm screaming inside, a constant melancholy of anger and rage. I just want to be understood. Is that ok? No, its not. I can't understand myself, let alone ask others for help. But its fine. Everything is fine. Trust me. It will be ok, someday, maybe, I hope so. Do I even deserve to hope? I'm non-binary, which screams at me to be shut down. I deserve to be hated just for that, at least that is what I was told in church and they know everything. I know I can trust that my Pastor knows what's right. Even my mom says so. Everyone says so. My parents do, my grandma does, my friends do and I love them all. I trust them and I would do anything to earn that loyalty back. But its ok. There is nothing I can demand from others that I'm not willing to give. I guess... But, something about that's wrong. No! I can't just ask for anything but I can just expect to be given what I give in return or at least the respect to be considered something other than a stepping stone in a story that isn't my own. I want to be ok. I try to be ok. How can I be ok when I haven't earned the respect I deserve, but I have! I earned it a hundred times over. I have done more than you ever could. The only thing I got in return were labels saying Disformed, Broken, Thing, Her. I'm angry, I can't deny that, but I'm ok. I have to be ok. One slip is a forever fall into the lack of hope that swells within. I can't not be ok. I'm telling you, I'm fine. Ignore the PTSD. Ignore the fact that my hand shivers. Ignore that I stutter when I talk. Ignore that I don't have someone taking care of me. Ignore my irrational fears and crazy obsessions. Just believe you are ok and you will be. Don't worry. No one could ever except me for being me. No one understands some one who's trans, and its fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine. I'll just be here. "Don't worry," I say, "I understand. I remember what you taught me: be grateful for everything you have and always, always respect your elders." Don't worry, I understand it isn't for control. I get why you can't change to help me. You just don't care enough and its acceptable because no one can ever understand that I'm gay, no one can ever under stand that I'm trans or autistic. It goes against what God decreed. How can I compare my knowledge with his? Don't worry, I understand. I understand everything thoroughly. Just don't come asking when I disappear. It's your own fault I died. You didn't understand. I returned the favor. Thanks for the opportunity, Christ. You saved me from myself. I met hate young. Now be kind and give me a break. I'm jumping today.
a pause in the play
Love without understanding is blind, superficial. Love, real love, true love, requires knowledge, awareness—accepting another person as they are, imperfections and all. Blind love is admiration and infatuation, blind love is loving without knowing, and that's hardly loving at all. To be loved is to be understood, accepted, and appreciated.
One can be understood without being loved, but one cannot be loved without being understood. Being understood is a fundamental desire, a psychological need. Life is a play and we are full-time actors, playing a part every day, donning a mask and reciting lines written by authors unknown. Most of the time, interactions occur between characters, not between people. Being understood is letting one's guard down, embracing vulnerability, putting aside the actor's cloak for a moment and pausing the play.
We are each shouting into our own voids, desperately yearning for someone or something to respond, to validate our existence, to say that we mean something, that we matter. Being understood is a reply from the abyss, an affirmation of our own identity from the eyes of a caring observer. Being understood is comprehending the language of another person so that they don't need to translate their reality into something made for others. Being understood is being permitted to simply exist, to be one's self.
Vulnerability
So many have called me mean,
which I have wished to be after years of catching on barbs.
But for the first time, to bear my soul, and be called scary...
I quirk an eyebrow. The left, as it is more harsh.
I clench my teeth enough to be seen beneath lingering baby fat.
I stare until I am sure my gaze pierces, until it hurts, until you squirm.
You had become to feel like home, after years of displacement.
And yet...
You do not know me, but you are in love with me.
I wonder what I must look like in your everlasting mind.
I smile as you proclaim it, knowing you mean it not.
I remember your thorns, still bruising my side,
"I miss the girl I fell in love with."
"You'll be better soon."
"You can be better. I know it."
It is not spoken with scorn, but I taste the bitterness like old beer on the back of my tongue anyway.
And what if I am better than I've ever been?
What if I am at home within a skin you are sure is a cover, despite the raw, bloody gore you are handed?
No. To love me is to know who I am, bared and all. This is not love.
But that is fine. I will balm my own wounds. I will cherish my ache. I will celebrate my vulnerability.
One
distance immaterial
our equator under
this
I stand
in the meridian
of our shadow
where longitude
bisects
indivisible
North & South
and all the latitude
standing
with arms outstretched
gives...
a reach so wide
it wraps around us twice
immeasurable
that's how
we cut
on the bias
the fabric of Love
I will stand
under
I will make Time
I will make Space
even if I have to
make a hole
myself
what
I felt
at the core
molten
is not past tense
and if there is
some
question
at the end
it's cause
we are still
wondering
about...
...retracing
our beginning
Misunderstood
My parents tell me that they love me constantly.
Not a day went by as a child that they didn't tell me that.
The words were pretty, enchanting.
They put me under a spell,
I was too entranced to notice the invisible threads that they wove,
Trapping me in a web of complacency and guilt.
I didn't complain when they yelled at me,
When they trampled over my boundaries and feelings.
How could I?
"At least we don't abuse you."
"You're just being selfish."
"You don't understand that we do this because we care about you."
"Because we love you."
Words that pierced my young heart,
That taught me to bury my feelings deep,
To not let others in.
I listened to their poisonous words,
Believed that I was the bad one.
After all, maybe I was selfish
For not wanting my dad to hug me
When he was never hugged as a child.
For not appreciating my mom's advice
When she constantly lectured me about not being good enough.
My parents aren't perfect,
They're bound to make mistakes.
That's the lesson that I've had to teach myself over the years.
But it's difficult to forgive them
When they keep doing the same things.
I can't tell them what they're doing wrong
Without them excusing their behavior
Or accusing me of misunderstanding their intentions.
Their hypocrisy is too much sometimes.
I understand that they wanted to give us the lives that they never had.
That they didn't heal from their own trauma as children.
And they raised me well,
Always provided for me, gave me food and shelter.
Supported me in the way they thought was best.
But they don't understand me.
They don't understand that I don't like physical contact in general,
That I was doing the best I could to live up to their expectations.
They don't understand that they provided for me physically,
But disregarded giving me the emotional support that I needed.
I wish that love was enough,
For my sake and theirs.
But I would rather that they understood me than loved me.
