Heal
February 16, 2023•1,119 words
I’ve debated for a few days on whether to publish this or not. It is written from a place of cynicism. When I was sixteen, my foster brother committed suicide with a rifle. I was asleep, ten feet away from him when he ended his life. The smell of gunpowder and blood is forever seared into my psyche. Whenever there is another headline about gun violence in America, I am transported, just for a moment, back to that night. I relive it. The anniversary is coming up. I can’t remember the date; I’m told that’s normal. I know it’s thirty years this month.
I once thought I was a survivor because of the horrors that I have witnessed in my life. They pale in comparison to the collective horror that we all endure on a daily basis. I, like many, worry about the escalation of the war in Ukraine. I am concerned about climate change. I weep for the future of my country because I see no way to turn around the inevitable slide toward authoritarianism.
I’m supposed to be on a train right now making my way to the Pacific Northwest. Those plans have been put on hold due to financial difficulties. I’m not sure what I’ll find once I get there; I keep hoping that I’ll run into myself, so I can finally meet him. I also want to be close to Canada. Sneak across the border and request asylum, if things get worse.
The piece is dark with references to disassociated memories. I struggle daily with my diagnosis, and it comes out in most of my writing. It also comes out in my art, when I do create it. The image for this post was painted the same night I wrote this. With all of that said…
Can we try something new?
This shit is broken
Maybe its time to burn it all down
rise from the ground
and build anew.
Calm the fuck down
it will be okay.
Maybe it's just me
king of defects
born to a couple rejects
adrift in an ocean of insanity
lost, trying to find an identity.
Weight of my world on their shoulders
no wonder, Atlas fucking shrugged.
The music can’t go loud enough
to hide the visions
drown out
and make the decibels bleed
an object of rage
used as a pawn
in a battle of hate
tossed about waves of inhumanity
trying to find an identity.
Motorbreath screaming
it does nothing to hide the fears.
Every time there’s a headline
visions pop up
Cold
Dark
Lonely visions
remaining innocence lost
Death by rifle
somebody cleans up the mess.
Tortured daily
reminders of things past
weave personal history
into the narrative
don’t get too deep though
it transitions to crass
besides, nobody buys ideas
there is no proposition
of value-added content
one day maybe
the fear will stop
go about my life
as a hermit
on a mountaintop.
I need to heal
step down from red alert
bake bread
watch the sun rise
Finally let go
and just fucking cry.
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