Photo by Alex Zavala
With worry written on my wrists,
I stood in suits and surrendered sentences
as clear to me as August sunshine but as clear to them as April mists
All at once, my brain was revealed as nothing more than a prison,
I told them how I engraved pain where no one else could see,
and I said everything I needed with pinpoint precision
I wrote about how my medicines ran up and down my chemical imbalance
like a shitty circus in my head where I was the clown,
and no one else could find the words other than, “I’m sorry, Alex”
I got called brave for simply telling my truth,
though, through and through, I walked off stage feeling like a fraud,
and like my platform had been misused
I fought to feel loved and for everything I thought I knew,
Somehow, my weakness was rewarded, but my weapon of words
ran myself off a cliff for what seems feeble—a cry for help heard only by a select few
Never once did I ask to become a charity case or someone for them to pity,
To call me a winner rang remarkably empty as what I really wanted
was support, not a reminder of why my art lacked acuity
And, yeah, I championed a lot when I was young:
being left by those who thought I was too much,
having the right words
but still feeling as death-defying as a patch in a punctured lung
So, I guess I’ll leave you with where I started, a sentence I wrote in the dark,
“I’m sorry that I can’t be the man you imagined I’d become when you held me in your arms for the first time,”
and, sometimes, it’s hard to believe my words would become my palace and my prison,
my fire without a spark.
Kindergarten 