watching the fallen (revised)

nine-year-old girls aren’t
supposed to walk
in on their mother
losing her mind

they aren’t raised to
bear witness to the fallen
but she watched

and she knew her
mother would never
be the same

this became her gift
learning what to avoid

an adult before
her time

yet still engaged
to a world that
overlooks her and
neglects her efforts

she’s grown but not
mature enough to
understand the ways
of this world

“You can love someone
for years and never
truly know them.”

she thinks this to
herself often
is she giving too much
is she taking too much

who will accept
all of her knowing
she’s been through
hell and back

knowing she’s watched
the fallen and
has tried her
best not to fall too

What Am I Supposed to Feel? NaPoWriMo#28

Some of the plants in my best friend’s plant therapy room. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

What Am I Supposed To Feel?

I feel nothing.
I’m supposed to feel
something . . .
Something is supposed to
hit me, shake me,
break me into
some semblance of
acceptance — 
isn’t it?

But
there’s nothing there.
I want to be happy.
I want to feel relieved.
I want to celebrate like
the majority of this
world but I know
this is far from over.
The damage is done
and really, how do
we undo it?

Where can we start?
What needs to take place?
So many movements.
So many lives lost
and this one victory
tap-dances on our hearts
and it feels . . . 
other-worldly — as if
the programming of its
occurrence hasn’t reached
the highest ratings and
we’re still waiting for
the go-ahead to
breathe.

I still have unearthed
breaths tucked in from
unjustified killings
stabbing me in
my gut — I can’t find
an endpoint.
There is no safe
zone.

And people laugh
and clap their hands
loudly and join along
in the grand hoopla
of it all while I
shelter-in-place with my
damaged spirit.

Tell me, what am I
supposed to feel?
I carry this verdict
with me, bury it in
my faulty vision, blink
away the madness of it
all, then settle on
the unclear view.

“It’s a start,” someone
says and I can’t help
but hear my trapped voice
rebut, “It’s your start.
I’m finished.”


Justice delayed is justice denied. — William E. Gladstone


Originally published on Medium.