i never claimed to be bulletproof but people aren't guns
so when a boy shoots me a smile,
i shouldn't bleed out through firing holes.
maybe i'm a shell-shocked soldier, fighting
just so i can hold onto something.
there's a difference between holding on & not letting go;
the former has a lower casualty rate.
i collect the bodies littered on battle fields
in the hopes of surrender.
there's a difference between surrender & giving up;
the latter is something i have never been taught.
so i see the ugly in a boy who has Detroit, Michigan
pulsing through his veins. i watch the firing squad
take turns twisting his insides with ammunition,
see him coil himself into an automatic trigger
with ranges set to 300 miles worth of promises.
the force behind his release is worthy of statues,
enough to alter venus' orbit.
we lost each other somewhere amidst the debris,
the space dust and rocket emission, flailing arms and all.
he abused his right to bear arms,
wrote me love letters on the strap of his AK-47
and read them aloud in that gravel & honey voice.
the love machine is running out of gasoline;
who knows how many full moons will pass
until i find myself a solar panel?
to this day, i am unable to set foot in a sanctuary
without whispering his name into the steeple.
i have a staircase wit that slows my ascension,
like the jar of his voice hiding in the cupboard.
i pray for him along with all the other fallen soldiers,
but we've both already lost the battle of letting go.