M. Hank

Blood and murder and starving people.

An orange man on his self built pedestal.

It is on the breaking backs of suffering Americans that he stands.

You were supposed to be different.

The one that I didn’t have to give up on.

Someone that I could rely on.

But I turned my back and you chose her.

She who wounded me with words and threatened to do worse.

Cursed.

Am I cursed?

Cursed to tie myself to people, swearing that they’re going to be different.

Only for resentment to grow like ivy, sentencing me to a place of discontent.

I’ve called it paranoia.

When I think of the color green, I think of the trees behind my school. In kindergarten, when kids were cruel and words hurt more than sticks or stones, the trees were there.

I made tea this morning.

I put the leaves in, watching the steam dance with childlike wonder.

I returned to my laptop, staring at a half finished chapter, the bags under my eyes more apparent than ever.

Moving on is different for everyone, and eventually, you’ll never think of them again.

Is what I hear from everyone.