she sat on the stoop of the building
her arms cradling his head that hung low into his chest
his eyes pressed hard into the palms of his hand
her posture spoke to me
her every cell begged to perform a transfusion
“transfer the hurt, from him, to me” her face said
as she nuzzled her forehead into the curve between his ear and shoulder
cars passed between them, & me
kicking up the odors of the street
of drunken night life
& sober regrets.
i could feel her desperation from four lanes away
i silently observed them
as my drunken companion pulled me along
but all i wanted was to pause, & watch–
to know their night’s story.
because even in an entirely different country,
hurt easily translates.
it amazes me
that in the age of the internet
where knowledge, and the ability to be informed
is at the tip of your fingers
you choose to live in a house
with the drapes of ignorance
pulled tight over the windows.
Because if you pulled back those curtains
you’d see the earth is not flat.
You choose to live in a place
circulating old air
& outdated information
to sustain you.
You rely on those walls,
to protect you from “those” people out there
but i wish for those walls,
to transform into mirrors
to reflect what devolved creatures
you’ve let yourself become
but you wouldn’t see.
you wouldn’t see, what we all see.
Because in order to see change,
to see fault,
you need a standard
something to compare yourself to.
But in your four-walled sanctuary,
there’s only the same
in a house with blacked-out windows
& severed ties to the real world
you’ve lost touch with reality.
So go on.
believe the earth is flat,
and that homosexuality is an infection,
to be transferred to your children.
for the sake of society,
remain in your house.
because we wouldn’t want your
to infect us.
having a mutual enemy
makes us mutual friends
don’t you see? she asks.
although i swear months before,
i was the enemy she spoke of.
we are not mutually exclusive to who we detest
& we can join, & disband any campaign of our choosing
the difference is,
i was not your friend,
so it was ok to wrong me.
she, in fact, was your friend,
so her wrong doings are unforgivable.
& although she hasn’t,
in true form, “wronged” me.. you’d like an accomplice.
someone to balance out the bully in you
someone to bear the burden of blame when she wakes up to this all.
what petty wars wage
over such unworthy men.