Marksman

My tongue forms bullets from words.

They can be weapons in anyone’s mouth.

I’m just a better marksman than most

with a childhood that gave me more target practice,

taught me how to fire when I was the target.

The muscle memory isn’t unlearned even now.

There’s a body count to

sharp tongued talent.

I wounded people because I was hurting,

I wasn’t the only one bleeding anymore.
Then, there was a distraction from all my bruised because I’d bruised people.
I thought that being the least hurt person was safety,

and punishment is prevention.

Neither is true.

My tongue feels like a threat most days,

A hairpin trigger begging to go off.

I do, sometimes.
But when I do now, my outburst’s aftertaste is rare, bloody,

it tastes too much like gun smoke to keep this habit.

Vital Sign

Need is a vital sign,

It’s an intangible pulse that reminds us that we are alive

by reminding us what we need to keep us alive or feeling alive.

Desire is a sign of life.
Want connects us to other things in life.

Want is the buy-in,

it gives us stakes.

I grew up believing that the less I needed, the safer and more lovable I’d be.

instead, my needs melted into magma,

Repressed emotions who only knew volcanic releases.

And then, I isolated again,

an inactive volcano.

but my warmth works where it’s meant to,

And there’s plenty of people and opportunities and things who wish for someone just like this.
the same is true for you, reader.

My wants,

when I hear them unabashedly, are my compass.

My needs stabilize me.

And the more I claim them,

the less scary they seem.

Dichotomy

My outrage and the performative cruelty I exert from pain are different things,

sometimes together,

but not always.

Honoring my outrage is liberation.

Indulging the performance perpetuates collective bondage where I’m the only certain suffering.