His name is ingrained into the fabric of our flag,
yes, the one you see there, waving in the December air,
with waves that glisten not from sun but from wind,
through the water turned frozen they fail to despair,
"My, oh, my, it's Washington Crossing the Delaware!"

Yet an intrinsic sense of nationalistic pride
exudes from the ink that tattoos this canvas,
the genesis of a nation they had taken for their own;
though, as truth becomes told, our pride seems to fold,
and the ink in the portrait begins to fade in color.

Still, on he trekked, though frigid and cold,
as hills bleached in snow began to unfold
potential Hessian retreats scattered across the beach,
a visualization of a battle bounding to unfold,
a strategist adept in war, in honor he was cloaked,

too determined to fail now.
But here we sit, in contemplation and wonder,
pondering the juxtaposition of privilege and patriotism --
how deceitful corruption now riddles those in charge,
empty promises as true as the navy blue

of the oils that stain this worn, cherished canvas.
Its memory lives on in the minds of many made here:
those of us who bleed the good ol' red, white, and blue,
and those of us who hide from the ones who tattoo
their whispered words into the portrait of our being.

Our quilted nation is laced with crimson,
a tapestry of history hidden from the young;
woven threads of variability outline the margins,
a picturesque vision of what could be; a voice speaks,
"Perhaps our future is just across the Delaware!"

why does it seem as if everyone has left me?
my hands quiver as i verbalize these thoughts
and the sweat from my palms dampens the page --
my vulnerability has become difficult to manage,
despite my mind's intent to remain good-willed
and my heart's discontent with the language misunderstood

friendship does not require ideological consistency,
and to believe otherwise is a detriment to the love
we are fortunate enough to experience in this life;
intellectual supremacy equates to the patronizing rhetoric
embedded within the elitism of the morally superior --
your grim clouds turn our progressivism dull

i will say what i need to retain a friend,
but the judgment within is a grudge untouched,
a ghastly bruise that never seems to mend --
you do not get to determine the language i speak,
the words i weep, or the healing i seek
when a bond so potent is forgotten so easily

to question my morality is to question my identity,
and those who know are the ones to see me grow
as i flourish from the bounds of these restrictions
and inch my way upright, stronger than before,
disallowing my words to be misconstrued,
a prohibition of the trauma i continue to elude

a Leo is loyal like the lioness of a pride,
gnawing at the flesh of the ones who betray --
grudges maintained in the chill of the winter,
a midnight breeze toppled an unchanged core --
it is not a star, this dim light retreating above,
merely the fading memory of our platonic love.

so long i'd feared potential isolation
inner grace turned ragged and worn
silence numbed the pain of regression,
countless nights of social deprivation
i glued the soles of my feet to that floor
unmoving in my solace of grateful acceptance
my crumpled aspirations were scattered and torn
yet the reminder remaining was your skin on mine--
my bed was shared and my space was raucous,
the fear of isolation consumed my own soul
unwavering in its probability yet willing to misconstrue
a demanding reclamation of the strides i'd made
re-imagining my perception of who i'd become to be
prolonging the inevitable at my own selfish detriment
but enjoying the fact that at least i wasn't lonely.

i heard them say it's bad to push away the negativity
under the blanketing embrace of a nice evening drink
but my mind isn't well and my time seems at an end --
do i really have a problem when i worry that i'm the problem?

do i need to abide by the constructs those i do not know
have created for people like me to stand beside and follow
despite the everyday occurrences that warrant the attention
of those who sit and wait and do not listen?

shall i walk my way down this narrow street
under the dimming streetlights as cars pass me by
just because that's what's supposed to help me survive?

or perhaps i should visit the dwindling spaces
occupied by those paid to sit and listen
to the life stories of those they do not know?

shall i trust their intentions and pray for remission
of these symptoms that never seem to fade?

no -- instead, i think i'll bask in this sun
and reach my quivering hand to the right
to pick up my drink tilted on its side
and press it to my lips to taste the bitter embrace
of this warm can of serotonin and dopamine.

how dare you --
endless months of unraveling,
countless hours stitching wounds,
sunless mornings beaming with a nothingness
only conceptualized through experience,
with nights spent curled on the tile
writhing from the ache of embedded scars,
still mending the voids i had abandoned

500 days later i reside differently,
the threshold of a new chapter long anticipated,
a chance to refine my routine, to hone my rhythm,
to emerge evolved with renewed eyes,
a mantra of self-actualization
traversing turbulent seas within,
raging across the crevices of my core,
tapering tempestuous gusts,
emerging anew with a novel reverence
for the agony borne from your touch

a solitary text, a wrecking ball to progress,
returns me to that forsaken juncture,
perched within four walls of trauma,
amidst undulating hills of the bluegrass,
with screams reverberating through the valleys,
our fury etched into these uttered phrases

how could you —
500 days on, you persist within,
while I dwell less in your realm --
your echo lingers, though not reciprocal,
your manipulation, constantly unyielding,
the deceit still unsettling in its grip,
for change is but a mirage, after all.