Solidarity is the gift that poetry gives us.

You go through my purse looking for power,

and after you take it,      

 you insert me with your weakness,

tainting my body, my soul, my mind, and my spirit.

You investigate all the dark areas

that you say remind you of a calla lily, 

  the deepest shade of purple,

and steal the desire to live.

Does not this type of pain infect the womb

meant to carry life?

Does it not damage the heart

meant to love and nurture?

Does it not lead to self-destructive habits  in the one now burdened by a void

where the desire to live used to preside?

 It may not seem fair  but it is the broken hearted  who carry the responsibility of having  their hearts mended. And it is the afflicted  who must hatch their own healing  and make sure to secure their minds with the truth.

Many broken-hearted people never get a second chance   to restructure their journey. 

 Because they wait to be rescued, 

 by those very people, that have demonstrated the skill to break their hearts.

But even after baptism  it is our responsibility

to come out of the water.  

We don’t need to stay in the water in order to stay connected to our identity in Christ. 

 Our power is in coming out of the water.

I woke up and there was not enough time,

not enough sky, and not enough ground.

Out of options,

at least it seemed that way at the time.

The world had very little patience,

very little love,

and very little kindness to offer.

I had very little hope that I’d recover

or that anyone could recover

from such an experience,

bargaining for compassion with promises

that I knew I would not be able to keep.

At dawn, there is always all the time 

 one needs for the day.

And God is the only bridge

 we can use to cross over

when there is not enough ground.

Desperate for a helping hand,

lost in the absence of empathy—

desperate measures are taken

just to check if the world has eyes that see,

because it goes on blind

to the suffering the child is facing.

Great heights are traveled,

destructive steps taken,

just to check if the world still has a pulse,

because it carries on unresponsive—

indifferent to the child’s pleas for help.

Displays of desperation turned inside out

become the way the inner child 

verifies its liveliness,

causing further harm to the person.

“See me!” demands the child inside.

“Am I alive? Can anyone see me?

Notice the hurt, notice my pain!”

To a damaged spirit,

one’s existence and worth are only realized

when acknowledged by other people.

It’s so easy for the child inside to get lost,

searching for evidence of its own heartbeat,

for proof of life.

Often ending up stuck in avalanches of shame,

with masses pointing fingers.

In a twisted way, finally, a confirmation

that, yes, you are visible.

We see you; you are alive!

I went looking for myself,

or was I running from myself?

I don’t quite know.

But vodkas with a splash of something

gave me glimpses of the self I sought to be

and a courage I couldn’t find

 or cultivate otherwise.

Only, those glimpses,

the courage, did not last long.

So often, I was left uneasy,

replaying the little bits I could remember,

with much trepidation  

at what I could not remember.

Have you ever felt like you were just a mirage,

or an unstable flame, flickering in the wind?

Had you ever felt the way I felt about myself

 and the world,

you would have understood

why I chose to drink my mind away,

day in and out, in order to find my true self

or at least escape the mirageness of my being.

Desperate to be rooted in something,

I moved from one addiction to another,

just to feel something,

anything…

anything.

The truth was always there,

sitting in the darkness.

You knew it was there;

I saw you laughing at my pain.

You talked about the sun,

the heat, and the lack of rains.

Not about what mattered to a little girl, afraid. Silence is not always golden,

 sometimes peace is worth disturbing.

Now when you give me a smile,

I am never assured,

because I’ve gathered the truth

that when the darkness falls,

I’ll be on my own.

You’d never use your lips   

to speak against my pain.

You’d avert your eyes,

  pretending not to see.

When I offer you a smile,

  know it’s just a gesture

and that you should take time

   to read in between the lines.