your parents
have wounds
they kept hidden
while pushing you
on the swing

now you’re seventeen
squeezing your eyes
shut and daydreaming
about all the ways
you will be better

you can create an ocean
between
once you’ve collected
enough freedom
to dig the pit
(it is reminiscent
of the one in your stomach)

the bridges
are yours to build
you don’t have to be
an island
but you don’t have to be
a punching bag

their wounds are
not an excuse
they do not get
to point to theirs
while brandishing
***** fingernails to
draw blood

but while their teeth
are sharp and their
eyes are dark
their broken skin shows
there’s still a beating
heart
in there
somewhere

maybe when i’m older
i’ll be brave enough
to reach out
and try
to feel it beat

"It's Alright"
I hate those words
Because when dealing with death
They are complete lies

But what should I say
Should I lie and tell him
It's alright
When I know that isn't true

Should I burden him with the truth
That it's not alright
And his hero is now a ghost
Never to return

I think and I try
To find somehing else to say
But my mind blanks
When I need it most

So I lie
And tell him It's alright
Because I don't know what else to say