Sometimes when I love, I am called hate.
Sometimes the only part that gets through in my words is the surgical knife of reason, the steel chill of logic.
And this I take only part of the blame for,
part of the responsibility,
For it is not my heart that lacks empathy, that is void of patience and soft words, that is made of spears, that has no arms to embrace with, no eyes to cry with, no ears to hear.
It is not my heart that is deformed, it is not born void of understanding or ignorant of human suffering.
It is not my heart that has no love, but it is a torn and weary love when it reaches some souls.
It is drowned lungs that gasp out between the trigger warnings and the comment sections
It is an act of survival that grows spears against the onslaught of accusations, a hoarse voice that is left after trying to speak over the howling wind of fear, or hatred, or ignorance
It is arms broken and ears deafened by the weight of propaganda, eyes dried by the desert minds of a thousand thoughtless voices
It is a heart torn heartless as it carries and shelters the bird of truth, a pale dove at the start
now become an eagle with an iron beak and fire-eyes and
bursting out of the rags of a shredded ***** with fury and sorrow over it's devoured host,
it's scree a war cry to those who do not know its story
who do not know it once came with a heart
who do not know they are the reason it flies, without the tempering furnace of a healthy heart,
from my mouth
from my pen
from the remnants that are reason, logic...
these are the last vestiges I have of that love
I hoped to bring to you,
the last ounces of a mostly-spilled cup.