Smile.
Laugh.
Run
Faster.
Faster.
Stop.
"What are you doing?"
Trying to escape.
"Nothing."
Look behind you.
Are they there?
Shh.
Shut up.
Don't.
Say.
Anything.
"What's wrong?"
You'll never understand it.
"Never mind."
Scream.
Scream louder.
Rip your hair out.
Cover your ears.
"Calm down."
I can't.
"I'm sorry."
They want you to die.
They're out for you.
Shut the door.
Lock it.
Unlock it.
Lock it again.
Hide.
Shh.
"Are you okay?"
I'm dying.
"I'm fine."
You'll never make it.
Freeze.
Fall to the ground.
Cry.
Cry harder.
Stop.
"What are you doing?"
Dying.
"What are you going through?"
Torture.
"What'
Beloved,
Is it possible to feel too much at times? Can the heart become a weapon, carrying the weight of unspent dreams?
There are rare nights when I seem to ghost dance with the world. I move through it, aware of the physical existence of people, places, things - their connections - and nothing more.They leave no indelible mark; they are a mere whisper on my landscape that echoes vaguely in my conscious mind, a glancing blow that barely registers. Mouths move...words are said, and I comprehend the physical act, the meaning and reality - but it only ripples the surface.
And then there are nights that are quiet electricity and life blooms o
They run when they hear sirens -
it's all they know.
They hide under bridges
and fire escapes,
like their fathers
and their fathers' fathers.
They know the sight
and sound of thick
black boots in hallways
and the anger of an engine
unwinding in the streets.
They remember how unfriendly
four a.m. can be,
hunching behind fences
that wait with open jaws.
And they remember
how sour fear actually tastes
when it lingers
in the back
of the throat.