He called collect for a reply to unanswered emails; he thought maybe I was dead –
but he’d been writing the wrong address.
The portion of his life that overlaps with mine:
a hymn of good intentions, if you speak Latin.
The mythology of his progeny; how the river of his blood sat diluted in my estuary.
“Ha,” he would bellow, overlooking the sea claim his legacy, “a fabrication from birth.”
And thus with my existence so neatly defined, I simply confirm to him I am alive.
Fire is hot and it hurts you when you touch it
It only hurts because if it didn’t
Your brain would never learn
To protect you from harm
But if an external source of
Pain or danger
Has no proximity to a nerve
The brain has no reason
To protect you.
The heart doesn’t have anything to do with anything
Conscious or otherwise
It’s a student of our mind
But sometimes it aches when the intangible harms us.
You have to decide
If it aches enough
To be courageous and bold
To confront the unnamed
And name it.
Face it, touch it, hurting…
Hurting until your brain believes you are on fire
Then you can forgive
Because fire does not intend to hurt
It simply does