there are invisible children hidden behind
miles of above ground swimming pools
and wooden swing sets. they've seen
life sized doll parts scattered across
their front lawns and were taught how to
take their first steps
as though they were being sent off to war;
knees straight. head tall.
don't flinch at the sight of blood.
a few weeks ago i turned on the local news,
the upcoming story took place in the west side of Detroit.
a photo of a young, colored girl wearing
butterfly shaped barrettes in her hair comes up,
the headline at the bottom of the screen reads,
3-YEAR OLD SHOT IN FRONT YARD
the news reporter talks about the situation
as though she's being forced to discuss
the weather in the middle of a heatwave;
it's the same. ****. thing. every. day.
i'll tell you what no one pictures
when they hear about another ******
in the same city that might as well
start building their front doors
like cemetery gates.
picture the mother
trying to sell a cradle so she has the money
to buy a 3-foot long casket. picture her
walking into her daughter's room
to tuck her into bed & remembering that she's
got nothing left but empty hands.
dear america,
tell me why some of us were born
with targets sewn into our backs, tell me if it
disturbs you at all that there are children
who want to chip off their skin, that want to be painted
a new color because they want to see if the light
will hit them in a different way,
& make them less invisible.

she walks in
says
        "i have a splitting headache"
and then retreats
to her room,
too long sweatpants
dragging
on the floor.
and i wonder
if it's the same kind of
headache i get
when i can't stop
thinking
about the
                past
                present
                future
until all i know is that
i don't want to be breathing
                              living
                  ­           correctly pumping blood
                             from my heart
                             to the rest of
                             my body.
i wonder
if she gets those
kind of headaches
that the
over-the-counter
stuff can never
                         soothe.

empty cups
curtained windows
and a bible that hasn't been opened since they told you there's a chance.
clusters of papers-
                             rejected-
                                          coupled with
that old journal you vowed to never open again.
the orange bottles need to be
                                                refilled.
unma­de bed
beat up tissue box.
                                                            ­                  no one gets it.

this is sanctuary.
                            this is how you start to live again.
                                                          ­                             no one knows about
                                                           ­                                            the used to be.
the full cup
the bolted windows
the brainwashing
the attempted letters
and the pages decorated with a different kind of ink.

they don't know about
the thoughts before the pills
the never-empty bed
the fits of anger.
                                                          ­                       this is how you start to live                        
                                                                ­                                                    again.

stand up at the podium
and tell everyone
I was mad

there was not a single cell
in her body that was sane

*Each molecule was rabid
Each word out of the mouth
breathed in another's pain,
another's thoughts, another's foot
another's absolute, down to Earth
truth

She gladly swallowed razor blades
and never once, coughed up blood
She sought to hold all pain
beneath a heart that would never gain
truth

She was insane

Truth