I have two black and blue wrists as a type this.
In high school I ate lunch with a girl who showed me
when the propaganda teen spirit relay team passes
through your soul, pound hard. She did.
Showing me two bruised wrists. I tried.
I decided hitting the typewriter and then the pavement,
puffing out bouts of steam suited me better. I have
Since devoted my life to trying to pound affection
Into the heads of people who do all sorts of sad things
To the beautiful souls they were born in. Restoring
The stentorian nature of a voice to the bruised
Whose voices have been kicked under the table
So many times they hurt like these bruised wrists do.
I believe that there are no victims in this world,
Just individuals who have temporarily forgotten
Where their power lies. I ran into
One of the members of the relay team
That ran my soul right into the ground,
Where it stayed for a pretty long time.
I had a choice to show him my wrists
Or to smile and pretend that I never once thought about
Him or any of his friends. I had to decide
If I wanted to play at a lower consciousness
And kick the ball around in my head that he
Is still the same racist, homophobic, asshole he was
When he was eighteen. I had to be bigger
And know that I’m not someone anyone could run through
Anymore. I’d fucking haunt your ass,
If you tried to ghost the beauty of my soul
The way you did then. So, in order to evolve
The consciousness of this planet, in name of
All the cuts and burns and suicides I’ve tended to,
I looked him in the eyes and pretended with everything I had
I’ll never know if that’s true.
Neither will you, but what’s definitely true
Is my heart grew. It expanded.
I might have two bruised wrists from carrying
A very large box, far too heavy for me
Up several flights of stairs
That serve as reminders
That if anyone is going to cause a bruise or abrasion
It’s going to come from working too hard,
Carrying on the good fight of showing bruised souls
Forgiving them is the only way to win the fight.