we secretly hope we fought for the right people

dear pagan hands,

do you ever wish you could carry handicap ballerinas on your back?

do you remember the days when we threw  syllables hap-hazardly from our gums  to the trees that want to carry them? do you remember when we held hands and wished on each other's scars, as if they were coins in a wishing well, bruises we'd collected along the way?

sometimes;
i slip bandanas under pillows instead of coins, because it's less painful then admitting  that once, my hands took apart the framework of a home, of a person's religion, of someone's hope. because it's easier than realising; sometimes we can fight with rocks and machine guns all we want, and just because we are a warrior, that doesn't mean our fight isn't birthing a thousand new ones in a moment. that just because some call us a soldier- that doesn't mean we can't be fighting for the wrong thing.

baby girl, you don't believe in me anymore-
what if, i was never meant light that street
on fire, what if whatever lives in churches
only cried for me as i crippled myself?

what if some battles are meant to be fought
by saving the street hands and crooked lyrics
who don't remember what it's like for someone
to see them, and realise all they are is drowning?

what if i'm no better?

but i'm worse,
because all i did
was build fuel
out of colored words
that i never meant.

what if that little girl is crying tonight because my bullet killed her brother; the one person who sat in her doorway and waited for the night to end, so her momma's boyfriend couldn't find her first? what if that's the screaming i hear when i put my ear to my hands, listening to the damage of last night as it faded purple and black?


i think;
you can believe
in the wrong
thing too much.

love,

weekend warrior girl


p.s

i'm sorry. i'll sit inside
your room each night
and let him find me first.
i promise you now.
i promised your brother.