Sunday, 10 July 2016

My Parents Taught Me How to Shoot

The people who care about me today shot me down for something I care about

Why are you going?

You’re not going to make a difference

You can make a difference by earning some money

That’s the sensible thing

Sensible- why is it always used as a compliment? Thank you for shutting up, sitting down and closing your eyes to the bloodshed

So I turned my back, and let them fire four shots into my back

My crime was a beautiful, innocent dream of justice and peace

I worked to earn the money, I toiled and I slaved but at the end of the day guilt overcame my exhaustion; because, like an absent father, if I cared, I should be there.

Have you ever been hurt and the place tries to heal a bit, and you just pull the scar off over and over again

My scars bled, and I walked blood through my house, giving it the grand tour of everything I had lost in the fire. I sat down cross legged on my kitchen floor and prayed for the blood to flow to where the memories of blood were being erased from the walls. Raising my hands up above my head, I awoke arching my broken back and begged my parents “don’t shoot.” 

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