What I would say to a bully.
There’s power in a name.
It’s gained by blood initiation
or, if you can brave it,
prayerful reputation.
Stop sipping on your excuses,
afraid to avouch your inner bruises.
Life is a test.
The longer it takes you to digest,
the longer I choke on the funk and fetor
of your outer bruises.
You’re not everythin’
you say you are or seem to be.
Even your truth
is a fiction of your own makin’.
But you want me to believe
I’m whatever sadistic fantasy
your insecurity dreams me to be
repeating what you think
everyone thinks about you—
a butterfly without wings,
pinned to a Petri dish
of morbid curiosity,
scrutinized under a magnifying glass
for the world to see.
You walk pigeon-toed,
avoiding the cracks on the sidewalks.
You only see the cracks on the sidewalks.
To you, all the sidewalks are cracked,
which is probably why you hide behind
a porcelain perfect mask.
Come out from your digital shell—
a Facebook version of your “best self”—
and own your sin.
Show them your blurred tattoos
and dry skin—
all wrinkly and thin—
scars and stretch marks,
your mutilations and burn marks
from rolling the dice
and cutting the deck “thin to win.”
You’re holding yourself hostage,
working both sides of the situation
but failing to pay the postage
for your own ransom negotiation.
When you were little,
your innocence was stolen.
This is the common thread
that binds all bullies and Svengalis.
Even little Putin was pushed around
until he found power in pushing buttons.
When you grow tired
of perpetuating this cycle,
Virginity will encircle you
and disciple you—
the sooner you fall to your knees.
God’s holistic lotion
restores your cracks
with blood and gold resin
from the stripes off his back.
Someone who knows you well
once told me that you’re obsessed
with knowing life’s greatest mystery.
But what if life’s not as mysterious
as you make it?
What if it’s simple?
Dare I suggest:
Exchange your brokenness for beauty.
Your ceramic mask
for the Japanese art of Kintsugi.