There are gods of fertility, corn, childbirth, & police brutality—this last is offered praise & sacrifice near weekly & still cannot be sated—many-limbed, thin-skinned, its colors are blue & black, a cross- hatch of bruise & bulletholes punched out like my son’s three-hole notebooks— pages torn like lungs, excised or autopsied, splayed open on a cold table or left in the street for hours to stew. A finger is a gun— a wallet is a gun, skin a shiny pistol, a demon, a barrel already ready— hands up don’t shoot— arms not to bear but bare. Don’t dare take a left into the wrong skin. Death is not dark but a red siren who will not blow breath into your open mouth, arrested like a heart. Because I can see I believe in you, god of police brutality— of corn liquor & late fertility, of birth pain & blood like the sun setting, dispersing its giant crowd of light.
I've been fighting a War Within Myself all my life, Tired of the hurt, the pain, the strife. Anger consumes me from day to day, Cellies now walking on eggshells, unsure of what to say. I do pray each night for the peace that I need in my heart, I need it before I tear what friendships I have apart. Prison has a funny way of doing some things, Leaves me wondering what tomorrow may bring. I'm tired of the hate, anger and pain that I feel, I just want my heart and soul to be healed. I want to be able to simply laugh at a joke, I need someone to help me before I lose all hope. My heart is almost completely hardened with what I've been through, I need someone, anyone, maybe that someone is you. I'm fighting a War Within Myself, and I'm so tired, So nervous, scared, like I'm on a high tight wire. I hope that I don't fall before someone catches me, But then again... maybe it's my destiny.