You are a bullet,
harmless, fascinating, daunting -
when unprovoked and on your own.
Except maybe a choking hazard.
Nice to touch and feel on my skin, but cold.

Give you power,
or a gun,
your aim is never accurate but
deadly all the same.

I can replay it - you charging
at the TV with incredible speed -
in slow motion.
The sound that followed was deafening.
It was an ear ringing, catastrophic explosion.
It was your fist meeting the screen,
us screaming and me crying,
on my cut up and bruised knees,
begging for you not to leave.

I had a tendency to chase after bullets
and a desire to fix the mess they would create.
I didn’t realise that I was the one being chased.
And that I was my mess I had to clean up.

I’ve stopped going after bullets.
(But now I play with fire.)

he was smiling
and we were laughing
and then he was gone.

there was a loud noise
that made my ears ring.
I didn't realize what
had happened, but
I knew it was bad.

I ran as fast as I could.
I didn't look back.

my legs burned
but I knew that I
had to keep running,
no matter what.

I burst through the
door to our apartment,
panting and crying.

my family stared at me
and it took me a minute
to understand why.

I went to wipe my tears
with the back of my hand,
and the liquid was red.

those weren't my tears.
that wasn't my blood.
the realization hit me
like one punch after another.

a random car had
pulled up next to us.
my friend's brother was shot.
I was standing next to him.
I ran. he wasn't behind me.

as my fear faded,
my memory became clearer.
the realizations that hit
my mind must have
punched my stomach too.
I was suddenly sick.

my ***** coated our kitchen floor
and my family took me into
our bathroom to clean myself up.

my friend and his brother
had known me since I was born.
I grew up with them.
I would continue growing,
but now he wouldn't.

I watched as his blood
blended with the water
in our apartment's shower.
I watched as it swirled
down the drain until
the red was all gone.

my last memory of
the kid I grew up with
is watching his blood swirl
down my shower drain.

it's been years since that day.
I've grown up. I moved out
of the city a long time ago.

it's over. he's gone.
there is nothing I can do,
and there was nothing
that I could have done.

but somehow, I still feel guilty
for washing him off of me.

we were fourteen kids.
there were enough of us
to fill a classroom,
but we rarely went to school.
we learned what
we needed to know
from the streets.
school was pointless.
multiplication and cursive
wouldn't keep us alive.

one of us was almost sixteen,
in the wrong place
at the wrong time.
he got mistaken for
someone else, and he was
stabbed over and over
and over and over again.
we were thirteen kids.

two of us were nineteen
and almost twenty,
walking down a block
that wasn't ours.
we heard the shots
from our street
a few blocks over.
we were eleven kids.

one of us was thirteen
and on our block
where she thought
she would be safe.
she was pulled into an alley
and hurt in the worst ways.
she found out
she was pregnant
a few weeks after.
we didn't hear the gunshot
when she took her own life,
but we all knew she was gone.
we were ten kids.

one of us saw his brother
gunned down in
broad daylight.
he couldn't stop
replaying the scene
in the back of his mind.
he grabbed a Glock 19,
and he took the lives
of four kids from
the other side of town.
he disappeared that night
into the glow of
blue and red lights.
he rotted away in a cell.
we were nine kids.

one of us was a hero.
he pulled a woman
out of a burning car
and lost his life
in the process.
the newspapers refused
to show his story
when they heard
what neighborhood
he came from.
he died a hero, but
he would never be seen
as anything but a villain.
we were eight kids.

five of us lost so much
that eventually we had
nothing left to lose.
the gang life called,
and five of us answered.
we knew that
they couldn't be saved.
these streets don't
give people back.
and they'll take you,
dead or alive.
we were three kids.

one of us was twenty
and he thought that
he would make it out
of here, onto better things.
he was making dinner
for his younger sisters,
two beautiful little girls.
a stray bullet burst
through the window
and took him down.
the last thing he saw
was those two little girls
who he loved more
than you could ever imagine.
he was their older brother
and their parent and
their best friend, all at once.
they watched him fall
and never get back up.
we were two kids.

one of us made it.
she grew up, and she
moved far away from
our old neighborhood.
but those memories and
those losses and that pain
never left her mind.
she turned to pills
and then to needles,
and one day, she
took a little too much.
I was one kid.

I am one kid, now grown,
with thirteen dead friends.
I am a survivor, but that
isn't something to celebrate.
I shouldn't be a survivor
because none of this
should've ever happened.
we should still be fourteen kids.

dystopian novels and
post-apocalyptic movies
somehow captivate
everyone that I know.

humans enjoy violence.
maybe it's the fear,
maybe it's the power,
maybe it's some sort
of adrenaline rush.
I don't know.

humans spend
so much time focusing
on the end of the world.
will it be zombies?
aliens? an outbreak
of some form of virus?
will we turn to anarchy
and cause our own demise?
again, I don't know.

I can't figure out why
this is so appealing.
I don't understand
other humans.

maybe my trauma
won't let me learn.

maybe my disconnect
comes from the horrors
I tried to leave in my past.

maybe I'm not interested
in the end of the world

because it feels like
my world ended
a very long time ago.

my abuser was a predator,
and I'm sure he still is.

predators don't change.
they are naturally
carnivorous creatures.

they are all the same.
it must be one monster
inhabiting millions
of human bodies,

and that monster seems
impossible to ****.

he enjoys draining
the life from his prey.

he has an
insatiable appetite

and a sweet tooth
for my innocence.

he uses the salty
taste of my tears
to season his meal.

and when he finally
sinks his teeth
into my skin,

the force of his jaws
crack open my skull.

he leaves a bite mark
on my brain itself.

he's inhuman.
he's soulless.
he feels no pain.
he has no remorse.

it's too late for me.
he's already bitten,
and his jaws are
difficult to pry off.

but it's not too late
for all of those women
that this monster
is busy luring in.

if you are out there,
please save them.

another child
will be taken
and forced to
grow up overnight.

another woman
will lose her life.

these women
are everywhere.

if you know one,
please, help her
to run away.

if you are one,
please, leave and
don't look back.

there is no
human heart
inside of a monster.

you cannot change him.
you can only leave,
and change yourself.

Happiness is an empty street
And a fast car.
Happiness is a clean, cold pool
You plunge into on a hot day.
Happiness is someone in your bed
Who’s gone in the morning
If you don’t want company
Or who stays if you do.
It’s someone who is happy to read the paper
Or take a hike with you.
It’s not worrying what others think
About you and your beliefs
And the wisdom to know who counts.
Happiness is strength,
Enough to fight the world
Or luxuriate in things gone well.
Happiness is attracting and repelling
Without having to try.
Happiness is a an aching fist
And an attacker’s black eye.
Happiness can be a warm gun,
Depending who gets hit.*
Happiness is not waiting for love,
Then falling in love in seconds.
It is knowing that you are fine
With or without a vow,
Yet being able to say “yes”,
When lightning strikes
And “no” when it’s just a cloud.
Yet happiness is not being sure
And bathing in uncertainty,
Of the pleasure in mystery.
Happiness is loving, faults and all,
An intensity so focused
That you’d gladly die for the one
Who was sent by some mixture
Of sunlight and shade,
On an ordinary afternoon,
Happiness is his body in yours,
His sweat on your skin in summer,
And body heat on cold nights.
Happiness is loving a little boy
Who looks like both of you
And knowing that love can transfigure
Time, exceed itself and encompass
More than one.
Happiness is contentment
In realizing how much you’ve had
And say you’ll feel rewarded
When your random life is done.
Happiness is the legend they tell
About you when you are gone;
The feeling is theirs and maybe yours.
Happiness is knowing that, if you go too far,
That there is no heaven or hell,
Or if there is,
Then anyone can play guitar.

September 9, 2020