he is the poultice on my wounds

and the ache in my bones

i feel full, i feel desolate 

i can barely look at him (longing),

i can't look away (undoing) 

As we climbed the staircase, you asked me my regrets.

"Regrets? I have a lot of regrets."

"Give me seven." Your voice was playful. 

Number one: "I wish I had bought tickets for us to see that show playing tonight."

Number two: "I wish we did things together more often. I barely get to see you."

Number three: "I wish, during the first year I met you, I talked to you more. I was shy, and maybe depressed, and it was hard for me to initiate things."

Number four: "I wish." I stopped on the stairs. "I wish you looked at me as often as I look at you."

Number five: "I wish I could pause us now, as long as I wanted." And I could look at you for a year or two or twenty-seven, before I ruin us.

Number six: "I wish you could see yourself like I do, with constellations spelled out in the freckles of your cheeks. I wish I could run my thumb across them." I'd name them. Here, I, Orion. Here, you, my scorpion. 

Number seven: "I wish I could kiss you."

When I looked into your eyes, the softest they had even been, I almost regretted saying these things, but in the end, not quite.

Speak freely.

Do not fear the wolves;

they are merely whelps,

and their throat-tearing power

comes from you alone.

I beg you--

do not let the parasite

within you

grow.

Do not let

your mind burn itself

inside of you.

It is not worth it--

even if your troubles

turn to smoke,

so will your heart.

And the world still needs you.

Courage, dear heart.

Mafia. Many are familiar with the card game. The group of people playing are each dealt a card. Which card means which part can vary, but it's typically: Joker=Mafia, Queen of Hearts=Doctor, Jack of Spades=Sheriff. Everyone else is a peasant. The narrator of the game dictates when all players shut their eyes, and when the mafia, doctor, and sheriff open theirs. The mafia silently chooses someone to kill, the doctor chooses someone to save, and the sheriff chooses someone to accuse of being the mafia. When the narrator tells the group to wake up, they announce who has been killed, whether or not the doctor saved them, and who the sheriff accused. The townspeople all vote on the accused, deciding whether or not to hang them.

Katie and six of her friends were taking a hike in the woods when they came upon an abandoned barn. They went inside for a rest. After about half an hour, three more explorers entered the barn and greeted them. 

"I'm Mike, this is Sylvia, and that's Kyle," said one of them, a tall, attractive brunet. 

Katie and her friends talked and flirted for a few minutes when the previously silent Kyle spoke up.

"Let's play Mafia. I have cards."

Mike chimed in. "I'll be the narrator."

Unfortunately for Katie and her friends, Mike plays by a different set of rules. When the unknown mafia points at Sylvia to kill her and the doctor doesn't save her, Mike pulls out a pistol and shoots Sylvia in the head. It's his game now. Katie's only hope is to find out who the mafia is and have them hung (in Mike's game, quite literally) before she and her friends are all killed.

not tearing up when yawning,

writing birthday cards,

looking people in the eye,

initiating hugs,

rolling pie crust,

reading out loud,

building furniture, 

drawing,

being honest--

or at least vulnerable--

sitting still,

telling stories,

family discussions,

finding keys,

losing people.

mosquito bites,

and sweaty skin,

and peeling burns—

I'm staying in

my ice cream melts,

I need a drink,

trapped in this swelter—

too hot to think.

I yearn for freedom, to sleep

under stars

to walk boldly 

in moonlight—

but my dreams are smo k   e.

I am taught caution:

I am responsible

for whatever happens.

I hear, over and over again,

that you are "colorblind." That, as the human race,

we are all one.

I don't know how to write this.

But when I see, over and over again,

the taking of black life,

color becomes more than a coincidence. 

Freddie (he owned a knife)

Michael (he jaywalked)

Eric (he sold cigarettes)

Sandra (she forgot her turn signal)

Did the punishment fit the crime?

Our America has never been theirs:

I have never lived

with the fear of being pulled over

and never seeing my family again.

I have never lived

with the thought that tomorrow

I could become a hashtag.

I have never lived

with the knowledge that if I should die for my color's sake

my humanity, my guiltlessness, they'll try to take.

So don't say that we are one,

that you are colorblind,

that "all lives matter."

Don't say we all bleed the same–

it is not our blood that has been spilt.