truth be told,
I am not that bold.
It is a jab into my eye,
a reality full of lies that my mom blames this distress.
Hold on, I can't tell black from white. Might as well be blind, I can predict even the scenic route that people doubt. My whereabouts are no longer in a crowd, standing with witnesses is unhealthy for me.
I want privacy, isn't being alone key anyways? Who is to care
if I write "Beware" or just  stare. In the end, there is this sentence left to bare. Always interpreting the language I so rarely speak. Energy may flow for others, but I am not a plug one can spark by lousy remarks.

dead bodies floating
in our oceans
from the Asian Pacific
to the Mediterranean

crumpled corpses lying
on our beaches
thousands drowned unknown

overcrowded detention centers
not unlike concentration camps
behind barbed wires
guarded by police and snarling dogs

nobody feels responsible

not  those who started wars
destroyed whole cities
made millions homeless
and into refugees

not those who take advantage
of the chaos for their own gain
abusing the names of their gods
or some ancient figurehead
to excuse their atrocities and greed

not those who live
in comfortable homes
and wish the desperate crowds
would just stay on the TV screen
and not come close

nor those who pretend
to be the guardians
of our great humanitarian heritage
but show no backbone
against nationalist fanatics

it is the shame of the world
to sit and talk and watch
and not do enough

those who turn away
the needy and homeless
could also
      quite suddenly
lose their homes

forced to rely
on the kindness of strangers

“This’ll be her last winter”
My father says in a
Soft sort of way
The same words I’ve heard him say
Countless times before
He always had an understanding
Of life and death
and A quiet acceptance of both

As we drove the road sides
Were littered with bodies and snow
Corpses waiting until spring
To decompose

He’ll never worry again
About being the last one left
The people mill about as if
Nothing’s changed at all
but He can’t stop looking at
The place where she used to sit
and It hasn’t quite sunk in yet
That she’s gone, forever
He’ll never see her again
She’s never coming back
and He can’t shake the feeling that
He no longer belongs in this place
He can’t move on and he
Can’t go home
Because she is dead
She is dead and he’s
He is the one that remains

This was her last winter and she
Nearly made it through
He holds his tea between his fingers
and Looks at me as he whispers,
“This’ll be my last, too.”

When I saw that the black had permeated
Every last vein, nail, and hair
and That it finally stopped to rest
Deep inside me, somewhere
I pulled out my best knife
and I rolled up my sleeves
Without thinking, I tore open the skin
and What I found wasn’t regret, but relief

I watched as one by one
They milled about and then out of the room
They stopped to peer inside the box
Before they left, they each caught
A glimpse of the beast that
Loomed underneath
No one dared to touch the thing
The oddity that had become me

So I guess they wouldn’t have known
I was harmless back then
I wasn’t a monster yet
I guess it doesn’t matter now
Like everything else, it’s water under the bridge