A Large Island

Sometimes I wonder if I break

My own heart before others do so

When they do it it’s like

Breaking a shattered plate, or

Snapping a broken twig–

The damage has been done already–

You idiot!

Sometimes I wonder if

I’m being dramatic or if

In fact, people around me

Wish me harm. See–

When they don’t actually wish you harm

You know it

And when they do

You know it

So if you know it’s happening to you

And you sit there and instead say

“It’s not really happening, this is normal–

I like it when their weapons flay me”

It’s like sad, to me

See, I’m not into that and

I won’t ever be. I’m a top, and I’m not

A switch and I’m not

A baby, I’m a very angry full grown man

Who hates being disrespected on the daily

I don’t think that’s hard to comprehend however

When the weapons flay me

Sometimes they slice

Where I’ve already been wounded

And I wonder

“Am I wounded, fresh, or is this

An old one?”

Days, weeks, months of wounds

Accumulating and then you realize

“I have scars all over me”

I cannot see clearly

What is fresh damage and what is old, reopening

Then I realize that I am bleeding,

It is not ambiguous

This is not a poem

I am not a metaphor I am

A person and when

My surroundings hurt me so much

I can’t tell what wounds are fresh or stale

I have to get up and move around and leave

I have to try and heal.

To me, unfortunately

I might have to leave the one thing I thought

Was helping me and yet

The more I reflect

The more I read my breadcrumbs the more

I see the expanse of my brain and the more

In tune with my writing I become I start to feel the power

Of years and years of reflection come to fruition–

I know myself

I am not hurting me, anymore

I don’t do that and I don’t need to

I’ve left friends and lovers

For less than what this job has put me through

I don’t think this job is the right fit,

And if you need any proof

Just read all my poems

I haven’t written about the sun, or the sky

Or the air in my lungs

Since I got this job. Have I been too busy?

Look at all the nasty poems

Look at all the edits I made

Look at all the proof of the misery

Eating me

And yet I am starving, still

Maybe I thought

I found my new home, but

It was just a large island

I thought I knew

Who I was, and what I wanted to be

But my journey is just getting started.

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