What I would say tête-à-tête to a bully
There’s power in a name.
It’s gained by blood initiation
or brave 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 your outer bruises.
You are not everything
you say you are or seem to be.
Even your truth
is a fiction of your own making.
But you want me to believe
I’m whatever sadistic fantasy
your insecurity wishes me to be,
repeating what you think
everyone thinks about you—
a cockroach with no 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 only put on
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
(once brand new)
and dry skin, 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 negotiation
but failing to pay the postage
for your own ransom situation.
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 medicine
restores our cracks
with blood and gold resin
from the stripes off His back.
Everyone wants to know
life’s greatest mystery.
It’s simple:
read your history
and exchange your brokenness for beauty,
your porcelain mask for the Japanese art
of Kintsugi.