The Room

“Simple. Psychological. Symbolic.”

The room of silence echoes sirens.

Sound raises demons from their sleep.

It’s time to eat.

When your shadow marks its territory,

purpose becomes peripheral.

Though we can’t see what’s invisible,

demons ride your sleeve.

They ingest empaths without empathy,

armed with disastrous ideas.

They ride backs through torment,

watch—and point.

They say, get anointed.

But with every negative, there is a positive.

Light will always shine in the dark.

The room of noise collapses into silence.

Sound decreases.

Demons slumber in peace.

It’s time for my angels to speak.

What We Never Sat Down to Say

“Distance reveals what closeness couldn’t.”

I wasn’t just trying to bust a nut.

Our children were made out of love.

But when it’s us—

it’s my kids this,

my kids that.

You ain’t shit.

You don’t do nothing for these kids.

Your mom bald-headed.

Your sister a bitch.

You ain’t shit.

After all this, I realized—

love was never the fix.

We filled the cracks,

plastered the holes,

but never repainted the wall.

Why does this always happen on Sundays?

Some days you’re okay.

Not manic.

I don’t understand what this is,

but I keep telling myself

we will manage.

We were damaged

way before we met.

In your family, it felt like everybody

already knew all the answers.

After all these years,

nobody knew you were schizophrenic?

On top of bipolar disorder?

Who was supposed to have your back?

Your brother and sister didn’t even like you.

Everybody said you were crazy.

I didn’t care about none of that.

This is the mother of my children.

I met my first son

a day after he was born.

A month later,

I was on child support.

I couldn’t pay

because I was home with him

while everybody else was trying

to buy into my presence.

A month later,

I got locked up.

Already in arrears.

We never sat down.

We never talked about this.

Why do you always insult me

instead of talking?

Everybody knew—

except me.

That’s how it’s always been.

That’s why I hate surprises.

Because it’s always

some bad shit.

“Oh, she ain’t crazy.

She ain’t crazy.”

Who wakes up at 4 a.m.

to harass you

about something that happened

ten years ago?

Now everybody in your family

a bitch and a hoe.

Everybody baby ugly.

And some more shit.

Thirty days later,

you smiling and laughing

with the same people

you was just talking about.

“I’m not a real man.”

How do you say that

when everything I’ve done since we met

shows otherwise?

I broke my spine for Christmas

so my children could have everything.

Your mother said I was faking.

I never knew

what you really meant.

Do you only feel that way

on your manic days?

Or do you feel that way

on your good days too?