The hand is slower than the spoken word
I write so slow, I’m barely heard
Each word is a careful choice
Each word my only voice

My soul in words I’ve written down
Quietly I rage without a sound
Baring ******* my pen to feel
What’s on the page, what is real

I got in trouble so much as a kid
For screaming or yelling at my parents
Siblings
Or anyone else
And it took me 27 years to no longer feel like a wretch for that,
But it finally hit me today:
Why does anyone shout?
They're trying to be heard.
And I shouldn't have had to be so loud
Just for someone to listen.
It's not my fault that I had to scream so loudly
In order for someone to hear me.

where is their heart?
I see it, there
buried in the scarlet and hurt
barely pushing blood and ready to burst

but it’s not from love. it cannot feel.
it has only hatred, burning for repeal
shunning calculation for sentiment and pain
for the thrill of what it was to **** again

are they sorry, in some part?
yes; but not the heart.
the heart still remembers what had been; that strange not-love —
birdsong that clipped the dove, (and let its shackles rust.)

so it is the brain that must do
because heart cannot feel,
and the only path left to choose
is to let itself heal

He was ten.
“What is suicide?” he would have said.
But when anger rose he hit himself,
knowing that it should be taken out—
weeded out—
but fearing to slash out.
He was a calm kid because he feared rage.
When he stopped hurting his body,
his words became unkept,
his tears hot with red,
his fists clenched.
He got into fights.
Then he stopped anger all over again,
yet his arms became marked with bites once again.

I punched that mirror
Over and over and over again
My knuckles bloodied
Hundreds of shards on the floor
Yet no matter what
Even as I kept smashing it all
Each shard is still
A reflection of a broken man

You should die.
Not for our difference of opinion,
But because you’d condemn children
To homelessness,
Hunger and malnutrition,
If it gave you
A tax break.

You should die.
Not for a difference of values,
But because realizing them would mean
Women’s lives would end,
Silently
By hanger
Or razor.

You should die.
Not because you pray differently
Or pray at all,
But because your faith tells you
That others should believe the same
By force,
Fire,
Or famine.

You should die.
Not because you work hard
Or have much,
But because you think those who don't
Are beneath you
And can expect
Nothing
More.

You should die.
Not because of your fear,
But because it rips babies
From mothers' arms
And cages fathers
In El Salvador.

You should die,
Instead of I,
Because I protect life,
While all you believe
Ends it.

You should die.