I know you didn't mean to
I know it wasn't your intention
But when you say I hurt you
I can't help but think that you made me
You gave me the knife that you fell into
And never understood my concern as your blood poured over my white clothes
No amount of bleach could wash the stains away
Yet I continued to scrub desperately at this tarnished cloth
Until the seams began to separate
And I know you didn't mean to
And I know it wasn't your intention
But I was left uncovered and cold
And you didn't hold me anymore.

You rubbed the blood on my tiny hands
When I was only a child
You hammered the nails into my subconscious
And drowned my head with thoughts of sin and sorrow
And I was only a child
Fearful of what or who may be watching me
Fearful of what or who may be judging me
Until I cowered under my baby blankets hoping to disappear
Yet I have to thank you
Yet I’m supposed to love you
Even though I know you talk to God
And I know he tells you not to love me
But Happy Holidays and
The warmest of regards

The hand that fed me
Became the hand that hit me
And when I bit his fingers
He only hit harder
We played when he wanted to play
And when the rough housing hurt me
I was crying in the corner like a kicked puppy
And I thought maybe I’d run out the door and down the street the next chance I got
But I was chained inside his bedroom
My collar so tight I could hardly breathe
And on that day I decided I didn’t like these games anymore
The front door opened and my restraints loosened
And I think the worst part
Is that I kept coming back to sit on the front porch
Hoping he’d let me back in
Because you never leave the hand that feeds you
Even if it leaves you starving

There are people being killed in the streets
And in hot, understaffed kitchens, I am working
I am working until my body fails me
And as I fall into my dreams when I get home
Gunshots, screams and cries echo in circles
And my dreams are full of bloodied bodies
And even in my dreams I am powerless
Even in my own life I am powerless
Controlled by the need for a mere couple hundred of dollars
To feed those dear to me
As monsters bare their teeth
and spew their deadly germs all over my sweaty, exhausted body
I am paid just barely enough to buy myself a meal.
There are people being killed in the streets
Their are people dying in hospitals their families can’t afford
Hospitals that I couldn’t afford
And I am cooking food for those who can afford to eat out
I shouldn’t be feeling the burn of a hot oven on my skin
I should be feeling the burn of a hot sun on my skin
As I take to the streets
As I fight for those who are hurting
Hurting more than I can even fathom, more than I can even imagine.
It is almost the Fourth of July
And people are being killed in the streets
And I don’t even have time to cry
And as people celebrate with lights and loud bangs in the sky
People will be fearing for their lives
And children will be without their parents
And parents will be without their children
And as I grieve today
I have to wipe away my tears
I have to pull my hair away from my face
I have to put on a name tag and an apron
While people are being killed in the streets.

Here I am, 20 years of age
Still unable to enjoy a beer in a public place
Yet I sit in my best friend's apartment on a Friday night
The glow of the city life shining on me through the singular window
And in my quietness I hear the banter of people likely having lived longer than I
Drunkly sauntering in the cold
And I think I should be envious of their openness
Of their still fully sound youth
But then I realize that my preference to simply observe from afar
Is not of my own fault
But of the people and substances who took my youth away
And it died far too young.

A tablet that is first sweet dissolves on my tongue in hopes that it relieves the feeling of stomach bile rising to my throat.
And as I step into the shower, drool dribbling down my slack chin, it leaves a bitter, almost intolerable taste in my mouth.
My head against the shower wall I’m unable to even wash my own body tonight, the thought of moving my arms to grab the body wash is insurmountable.
Catatonic, my pain turns me into a vegetable, only able to speak few words at a time like a toddler who has just learned to talk.
Afraid of the fluorescent lights as I sit on a thin piece of paper
All for a man in a white coat to prescribe me another pill to create a new sickness in me.
Sleep no longer an escape, for when I wake the stiffness pounds away mercilessly against my skull even more so, like a construction worker with a jack hammer tearing apart pieces of cement.
My skull is splitting in two day by day by day until it can no longer contain me
Maybe then I will find relief
I can only hope so.