The blood on my hands has begun to dry,
Along with my eyes, no more tears to cry.
I did what I did, I don’t regret their demise,
So why do I feel so conflicted inside?
I go into the bathroom and walk to the sink.
I pour myself a cup and take a small drink.
While deep inside, I’m boiling to the brink.
And if I don’t let it out, I’m destined to sink.
I look in the mirror, and all I see,
Are two eyes freezing cold.
I don’t remember who’s staring back at me,
I’m still not used to this mold.
I used to be a coward,
My will to speak overpowered.
While everyone around spoke so loud,
I’d sit at my desk and not make a sound.
But I made a vow to speak louder,
No longer will I be a coward.
I’ll say what I mean and mean what I say,
I’ll be a good man to my dying days.
I’ll find my hill and make my stand,
Holding on tight with my bloodied hands.
I stare into my two cold eyes,
My guise overwhelming my surprise.
I wash the blood off my hands.
I hope this was worth it in the end.
Since it takes a lot to change an identity,
I gaze in the mirror at the new me.

They always say the same things -
the script and the show

“Let’s fall in love over a fancy dinner
and stories of travelling the seas.”
“Take control of my car stereo
play whatever you love.”
“I did three thousand pushups in three minutes, darling, feel my biceps.”

Same faces,
same words,
same places,
same stories.
Heard it all before.

But maybe -
if we’re able to cry all night
on the other’s shoulder,
for no reason,
or a hundred reasons.

If we can scream out
the moments we felt small
felt guilt,
felt shame,
felt fear,
felt agony.

If your long paragraph
meets mine
and we don’t flinch.
Just hold.
Just stay.

If we can dance,
inebriated,
with arms so entwined
we forget
whose hand is yours
and whose is mine.

If we lose track of time -
in silence,
in words,
in laughter.

Let love bloom
in a secret garden
of periwinkles and petunias
but also
in the mud,
the mould,
the stains of regret
and wishful thinking.
Let it exist
in nightmares
and dreamless nights.

Not perfect.
But present.
Something different.
Something more.

What power you yield
in the voice of one—
to say to the world
“something must be done.”

What power you have
in the hands of two,
to do what you said
someone else should do.

Playing ball
with a sack
full of words,
I nod along
as you set up.
Clinging to my drink
as if my bones
were connected,
I trace my pocket
over and over again.
Until finally,
your voice slows,
and my hands catch
your words.
As they reach
to toss back
a response,
I’m relieved
to have something–
anything–
to do with my hands.

Blessed hands that held the brush so fine,
Spoke of stories yet untold in line.
Fingers that danced with vibrant hue,
Whispered secrets, as the canvas grew.

With every stroke, a tale unfolded,
Of passion, fire, and emotions bold.
The hands that painted, spoke of love,
As colors merged, sent from above.

In gentle touch, they shared a sigh,
As petals bloomed, and sunsets lit the sky.
With firm grasp, they told of might,
As mountains rose, and night descended bright.

The artist's hands, a language true,
Spoke of dreams, and all they'd do.
If you let them, they'd tell their tale,
Of beauty born, and emotions unveiled.

Their whispers echoed, as the art took shape,
A symphony of color, a heartfelt escape.
The hands that painted, spoke of soul,
A language universal, making us whole.

I’ll walk up to you, barely soft-footed
At the back…
Don’t turn round! I beg you! Don’t move!
For God’s sake!

I’ll nuzzle my wet forehead
Into your back.
I’ll put my hands on your shoulders.
They’ll press pack.

I’ll stick to you all over!
With whole body!
Even if they’re down on me and think,
It’s *****.

I love you greedily, endlessly! Whole,
Not half!
Asking nothing instead, recklessly ruining
Myself!

He taught me how to wield
the weapon made of words—
a blade that kills,
now saving lives,
like it once saved mine.

My own work
pulled me back from the edge.
And in it,
he lives—
my teacher,
the man behind the lines.

Words—
once carved deep in the mind—
outlive the flesh,
outlast the hands
that once shaped them.

His words stopped me
from falling
to the hundred voices
that came to ****.
They caught my train
just in time
as I stood on tracks
with no will to run.

He never held me,
never came near.
But light can shine
without a hand,
and grace can guide
a demon back
from its final breath.

He never said : “Stay.”
He never said : “Don’t die.”
He simply lived
in such a way
that I believed—
perhaps, this world
can be heaven
for someone.

And that was enough
to make me see
the hell I’d made
and the rat I’d been,
crawling through tunnels
thinking no one
ever looked down
with love.