Parker Stillwater

I could’ve been somebody who didn’t flinch or wince
at every sound out of place.
Living life in a dream state,
known to dissociate, disconnect, and escape
nightmarish recollections of all that I hate

in me – what no one wants to me to surface;
find a prettier purpose,
quietly close the curtain
on all that was taken –
like it’s easy to move on,
sing a happier song.

If my body could produce
a sound, lighter, or induce
sweet melodies from my lips,
I swear all of me I would give
to be cleaner and easy
to digest than all my queasy

memories and pleas turned into rhymes.
Believe me, I try all the time
to open my mouth
and let out things that won’t make you frown,
or sob in a puddle; surprised
beauty like mine is so deprived

of days where the sun fully shines,
where what’s lost is behind –
no more echoes of my screams,
no more bleeding from the shards of my broken dreams.
But it’s because I’m so broken
you love me now like a token;
so long as I leave unspoken
how I came to be
so jumpy and distrusting.
Should’ve died from the thrusting
and thrashing against
a reality too dense
to produce anything other than
the broken beauty I command.

I could’ve been somebody who doesn’t fawn or freeze
at reminders of his insatiable greed –
but I’m not and I’m dreadfully tired
of being asked to put out the fire
in my soul, burned to ashes
from all the masses
of complicit onlookers, now
telling me to calm down
every time I flinch or wince or hold my breath;
like I’m scared to death –
because I was and I am
and I’m simply doing the best I can.