Confession No. 9: Sometimes I Write Shitty Poetry and Call It Art

I have blood on my knuckles

(on the hands that soothe my friends)

And rage in my heart

(nestled between lungs that breathe hope)

I have gunfire in my ears

(the ones that hear declarations of love)

And weapons in my arms

(cradled the way I once held a babe)

I have ash on my tongue

(that once knew only the taste of honey)

And bones under my feet

(that used to glide across dancefloors)

I have a threat in my eyes

(which used to read with such wonder)

And black on my soul

(which used to be so light)

I was born in peace

(mother screaming, father hitting)

I will die in war

(among friends I have made)

I am a warrior

(and a person)

I would not change

Confession Time: sometimes I don't even know if I'm a person or a tangled mess of hypocritical statements

Always,

Your teenaged disaster