You taught me empathy, a lesson
that keeps me up at night; I weep in solidarity, whispering
prayers for your safety, from others, from yourself.
You showed me the bruises on your body that mirrored
the ones in your soul. I could only stare dumbly
hoping that my friendship would be numbing to the sting
of childhood memories and present day atrocities. I tasted
blood in my mouth from the devouring of words my mother
told me to never speak. I wish I had shouted them for your
honor, screeched them against your enemies, our enemies.
This hatred of injustice is my sanity. I paint
the white walls of this room with strategies of revenge.
I hear the words you aren’t saying and I pocket
them to sustain me on this journey of recovery,
this walk of salvation, I walk for you.
I write for you. You have closed your eyes to my words.
I sing for you. You cannot hear any music.
We held each other together but you
crumbled in my arms. I am left with pieces of misunderstanding,
misuse, misery. I rock them as if to comfort a baby.
But you are dry bones. I haven’t heard you laugh in over two
years. My lullaby is an amateur prophecy and unlike Ezekiel
I have a fountain of doubts. I have spoken my own words.
I have confirmed my failure.
You were my world and I could not save you, friend.
So I must save the rest.
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