This world is so unfriendly and unkind.
How’s a teenager with Zeus’s ADHD,
the rage of Achilles
and the passion of Paris
supposed to survive
the suburban hostility
of drive-by bullets
of bullying
and cliques of cruelty
with privileged popularity
without losing his mind?
If you want to get to know me
then step inside.
Maybe you’ll succeed
where others have tried
or lied about what they’ve seen and heard
from the outside.
You can’t help but cry
as you peel back layers
of gilded pride,
perfumed with the sulfuric acid
of guilt and shame
to get to what’s inside.
Emotional enzymes release
as the process of unraveling me
like an onion
pricks the heart
and irritates the eyes.
I clench my jaw
and stick out my chin
so I can take your hardest hit,
while I shrug my shoulders
and wear a well-worn grin.
People are often perplexed,
thinking I’m a martyr.
But I’m just standing,
turning the other cheek,
rolling with the punches
like the God-man–
all-powerful but meek–
proving that in a broken world
love hits harder.
Wounded,
trying to survive
the daily grind
of being human,
of being alive,
during a time
when not every crime
is met with formidable punishment.
I’ve lived with the pain for so long now
I can’t let my guard down now
or you’ll see
all the pain you’ve caused me,
sucking every pretty thing—
even what we consider “usual,”
which is really just another word
for a shared miracle,
every metamorphosis
from caterpillar to butterfly,
every photosynthesis
in the Congo
to the garden outside my window—
into a black hole
caused by the implosion
of a dying star,
once bright and beautiful.
I’ve contemplated death
but that’s just quitting
before my time runs out;
it’s like walking off stage
before my drum solo
or my pen runs out
of ink
before the autographs begin.
Suicide will kill me.
I don’t mean physically
but metaphorically—
emotionally and spiritually—
all my hopes and dreams dead,
never to be held or comforted
or tucked into bed.
That’s not what I really want.
What I really want
is for you to love me instead.
I’ll never admit this
so don’t ask me to confirm or deny.
When I look into your eyes,
I pretend to be indifferent
with a stoic disguise.
I’ll say “I’m fine,”
which is just another way
of caging myself
and holding back the tear
that’s tied to the nerve
that’s incited this fear.
From a young age
you’ve abused me
with lies about my identity,
disrobing me of my kingship,
and seduced me
with empty promises of friendship
only to use me
as fodder to protect your own insecurity.
What I’m feeling deep down is rage,
a ball of fire that’s starting to consume me.
I know what I’m supposed to do
but I’m motivated by feelings
that have nothing to do
with becoming a saint or a sage.
Like you—
the hurted becomes the hurter—
I consume those closest to me,
ravaging all life,
feeling like there’s no end
to the consequences
of my strife.
You feed off me
like a fat, bulbous mosquito,
flying low,
biting ankles and toes,
afraid of your own shadow.
You bleed me dry,
waiting until I get strong again
so you can do it all over again.
This is what people don’t understand:
you steal from me the hope
of being my true self,
who calls strangers “brothers,”
refraining from hurting others
and protecting others’ innocence.
Instead, you and my shadow self—
the imposter—
have become fast friends.
Now I’m contemplating life
because love never fails,
not the love of mortals
but the agape of heaven
that drips the sweet nectar of sacrifice.
I breathe,
strengthened by the truth
of who I am,
not a virus or infection
but a child of God,
walking back home,
no matter my insurrection
like the prodigal son,
humbling myself
and owning my imperfection.
I can’t change what you think of me.
But then again why do I care so much?
Maybe, it’s because when your fangs
tear into my flesh
you leave something behind,
something inside
that causes me to remember you
every time I scratch and itch.
I’ve chosen to heal
not by scratching
but by forgiving you,
inch-by-inch.
Love is seeing your sins
but not casting a stone.
Forgiveness keeps us in good company,
the opposite of justifying hurtful behavior
that leaves us feeling shameful and alone.
I’ve sinned in retaliation,
which is not an excuse
but a natural reaction
to the attraction
of opposites
that inspire a dialectic
like the protégé of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky,
who lives with the daily tension
of the ideal and the real
that manifests itself
as a choice to be taken,
paid for by divine blood
for an eternal ransom
to be accepted or to be forsaken.