and though we breathed the same breaths
under different skies
and in different tongues
though the whispering birth
of one
was the death of another
both righteously tainted
both cut open
bleeding into me
and her
and us
and them
and god i wish there was no them
i know
i know i know i know  
the room was ink
and cheap leather
and there’s no room for god
in collars or letters
but have your bones been mended?
and
has the bleeding stopped?
because their hands
are still red
their wounds like honey
sticky
infinite
crystallized
so, my love
it’s time you learn to sew!
stitch up your broken!
sever the wicked!
make your mosaic!
and i’ll tattoo it on my sleeve
i’ll bottle it up
and swallow it
and when it sinks into the ocean of my body
i’ll think of them
and hope
that some day
under some sky
they can taste it too

As we sit, take our seats in the banquet hall,
everyone rushes to be the first to feast,
while we’re left choking on the past.
Does no one hear the wind,
wailing against the stained glass?

Silver goblets raised in mock celebration,
filled with the essence that I poured.
Gleeful toasts echo against fractured stone,
laughter filling the banquet hall.
Does no one see the blood,
dripping down these chains?

A little too late,
they finally look around.
The stained glass has cracked,
its stories bleeding out onto the marble floor.
The drapes now hang in tatters,
lace left ripped in shreds.

Is this what you wanted?
The desecration of this citadel?

As walls begin to tremble,
pillars groan under the weight of decay,
no one stays to help.
They run.
Feet that once stood in reverence
trample the sacred,
careless, unburdened.

But I remain.

Veins of frost cover the walls,
the ceiling yawns open, snuffing out the light,
and I cannot move.
Not as the glimmering chandeliers fall,
not as the stone gives way beneath me,
not as the ruins cave in.

As the winter chill creeps in,
the dust now settles.
Within the silence
of these hallowed grounds,
the echoes of laughter now lost.

As I watch from beyond.

A ghost draped in apathy,
watching the remnants of me buried,
watching the last echoes of my warmth
fade into cold ash.
Wondering if I will ever
rise back from the ashes.

No hands reach
into the wreckage.
No voices
call my name.
No one mourns.
And maybe
they never will.

Teach me mother how to say NO..
To raise my voice and swim across the oceans.
To value safety over politeness.
To feel comfortable in my own skin without seeking any validation from the outside world.
Teach me mother to hit back, when I'm mistreated, when my feelings are not validated and disrespected.
Teach me mother to know what I want.
To be brave, stand tall and bold.
Teach me mother to believe in my dreams, to dream of a better world.
Because when you're gone, I'll carry the legacy, that doesn't have to be out of pain and suffering.
Mother, teach me to be my own hero so that I won't tread the path taken by you again.

I return a hero,
but the victory
is buried in my skin—
cold sweat,
thick as blood,
as a grave.

3:47 AM,
The door creaks open,
the old hinges groaning—
boots pounding closer,
each step like a drumbeat,
bringing a cold shiver
that claws down my spine.

Then—
silence.

A scream cuts the night,
the daughter,
the mother,
they want me—
drag me back
to that blood-soaked hell,
where nothing survives,
where life is torn apart.

Warplanes split the sky,
tanks rumble in my chest—
the taste of rust,
the heat of gunfire,
the smell of flesh burning,
of metal tearing through bone.

l open my eyes,
and I'm surrounded—
the bodies of my brothers,
their faces smashed into the earth,
eyes wide,
mouths frozen in screams.
The stench is choking,
the blood thick,
pooling like a dark sea around us.

The Nazis—
they don't stop—
shooting the fallen
to make sure no one rises.
I feel the shot in my gut,
but I'm still here—
I wait my turn.

I close my eyes.

And then—
l open them.
Still here.
4:01 AM.
I survived.
Barely.

Life is about giving
back instead of taking.
I took a lot all my life,
apathetic and selfish.
When I see people today,
they don't look like marks.
I don't think about what I
can take from them.
They are God's handiwork.

Life is strange and short.
I couldn't have caused this
inner transition.
I always subscribed to
morality in theory.
Thank God,
the blind still receives sight.

Sometimes, acquaintances will say
that I've grown soft
as they turn to green jello, right
before my eyes.

the people of loss
have nothing on us,
pillows of unravelling floss.

only the pillow knows,
a pedestal for weakness,
our shared bygones.

So common for its ease,
Like feathers wandering in the afternoon breeze;
So trivial, lacking empathy,
Like humans subjugating nature.

So easy to deny knowledge,
Like fake news carried by the constant breeze;
So common, without understanding,
Like information without discernment.

Lacking empathy;
Respect is disregarded;
The other is excluded;
Vision is closed;
One's own interests are prioritized.

For unfounded beliefs,
Without seeing the facts
That reveal the subjectivity
Of the view of one or of many,
Which, nevertheless, does not define
Wisdom, knowledge, discernment –
So relative, even through reason.

Like cattle in false pens,
They prefer to be guided
Rather than seek and uncover,
To think, test, and define.
Belief, prejudice
Or time?
The misinformation of people is maintained,
Trapped by the interests of certain exclusive groups.

And I, thinking,
Without destination,
Reflecting on myself,
Confused,
Spreading uncertain concepts,
Certain knowledges,
Modified.

The reason for existence, I don’t know,
For life I am already tired.
From so much disdain to find,
In a gaze, the judging.

I move forward, between encounters
And life's disconnections,
Waiting for someone,
Who, in solidarity, understands me,
Without judgment, but with joy,
For the simple feeling of another.

The feeling is uncertain, fickle,
Reason, many times, certain
Until the opposite becomes clear,
Thus, we know little,
Except what is likely.
And we move forward, waiting,
To discover the improbable,
In the sighs and existences of others.

A-walking on a wormwood path
that’s paved by age’s cobblestones
on past a palace of distant past
in a Prussian park, a mind unthroned.

He walked, a shadow
through the foggy night,
his pulse beat faint and shallow
as the pale and fitful light.

In the lace of this quicksilver mist,
a fellow shade now walked along.
She emerged from dark, adrift
like him. They hummed the same black song.

In what had been a pitiless pit
of icy fog and stony walks,
she was there as if summoned by fate’s writ.
In whispers, she and he began to talk.

They shared their bleak
and tattered tales
to raise the wreck
of where they’d failed.

And as they talked
their once distant light
began to shine
out in that night.

Here in their pale of desolation,
two kindred shades touch shadowed hands
and in their touch found consolation
to rekindle light in benighted lands.