Often there are times in my life where I deal with being mute, overwhelmed with all that happens from day to day. I use music and writing to find my way. This helped. Hope it helps you.
And one for my brother:
Repetition leads to insanity, but I am grateful
for the shade. Grateful for the colonials
which almost seem planted to shield my face
from the mid-day sun. Oh my brother,
there you are in your cell, again, me in mine.
Wasn’t our childhood fucked up?
We both knew that the red room was haunted,
but never spoke of it.
yet rising together, bubbles in a vat of tar
rolling in the heat of self-pity. Enough of this being together
in our aloneness bullshit. Let’s talk.
I cannot handle anyone being too near, won’t be touched
or held for too long, and even my children’s fingers
on my face or in my hair is unbearable. You always knew
this about me, always gave me safe distance, until now.
A thousand miles and I don’t know how many steel bars
separating us. I can’t call you to ask: Are you safe?
Are you scared? Can you breathe?
Can you sleep at night?
I remember the trailer park and the boys
who hid in the bushes, threw rocks at you.
I chased them down and caught one,
knocked him to the road and rubbed his face in gravel.
The violence was a joy, as close to feeling happy
as I’d ever felt, and I demanded punishment,
told you to stick up for yourself, told you to punch him
or bite him, or kick him,
anywhere, hard. But you, with the bruises rising
on your face, you with your wounded eyes,
looking at me like I had been the one to hurt you,
would not come near me,
would not touch him.
I thought you were a coward. I thought revenge
was justice. I didn’t know it then but you showed me
justice is less about getting even,
and more about just getting through.