i want my poems
to be profound,
beautiful,
meaningful.
but i
also
try to write about life
which is
none of those things.

i feel like i am going to throw up.
***** anxiety
through the holes
moths made in my stomach.
we are going to die.
you can either
ignore it
or fear the day it happens.
no matter what,
it keeps coming.
death is an ocean
death is a desert
death is a city you can't
get
out
of.
death is lack of change.
maybe if i try
running around
like a chicken
post-guillotine
ill be able to avoid it.
or at the least
stop thinking about it
or anything really
for a while.

but
probably not.

my body still aches.
when my mother hugs me
i tremble.

i don't like being touched anymore.
it reminds me of your hands
like spiders crawling
under my clothes.

i was so small
and you were so much bigger.
get your voice out of my ears.
saying
'Let it happen.'

in seven years, all the cells in a body
are replaced
which means
in six years there will be no part of me
that you ever touched.

i am counting the days
until then.

hollow shells.
am I talking about
kids
or
bullets?

trust no one

helicopters give them panic attacks.
am I talking about
kids
or
war veterans?

is there a difference these days?

this blood spatter on the walls
will keep getting painted over
anyway.

when we speak of courage,
we talk of those long dead.
the heroes
the martyrs
the saints.

but I've seen courage.
it's in the fight.
it's in the picket signs at marches
held up like pleas to the heavens.

it's in the kids who threw themselves in front of a gun
and lived.
dying bravely means
going
down
fighting.

fight until your lungs give out.
fight until your knuckles are ******.
fight until your knees are trembling.
and then,
keep fighting.

my mind is asleep;
even though i am moving
i am still a corpse.