Now I know you all want honesty,
but believe me sometimes standing here
is difficult enough,
but here I am and here it is.
I think I’m going crazy
because I’m out of place where the age has numbers
and standards
for the thick thoughts
that poured off tongues
into the open minds who’s hungry ears
took every last word we had.
Like something hiding beneath my bed at night,
I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s there
because something’s just not right…
I don’t know why,
because at best it’s just a guess,
but I got so mad
it was like holding fire in my hands.
I had acid dripping from my eyes
when they started crying
without even asking me
if I was ready.
Because this is the skin I’m in,
wrapped too tight to move
so I take stretched steps
wrenching my own heart out of it’s place
with the pace of a drumbeat
beating and pounding on dried skin.

It’s like just being awake
makes me want to break myself against
something larger than life
where the blood drop stains
might linger longer than the bodies
of those who feel the same as I do.
Those who’ve refused to be given their names
and those who’ve fused their fingertips together
just to say that they touched something,

but I’ve only got a guess at best for why
I want to show you my hands, but not the fingers.
Maybe because these fingers are what lingers when I’m trying to hold on
and I just want one memory that doesn’t seem fake.
That doesn’t sound sad when I tell people the story.
Because sometimes
I want to break my face against glass
for when the times move too fast
and for when things have no meaning until they happen.
Where special moments are seen fleeting
like there were bee stings covering their backs
and with this lack of devotion
it’s like
we let the cracks in the ocean floor
take away what made us whole.

So I want to break my hands
against the beautiful backdrops
you hung over a concrete wall.
Because my minds been spinning out of control
with thoughts thinning out
just to fit into something else
because rebounds were meant to bring us back to each other,
and not to someone else,
but you’ve kept me like the money I was worth to you,
saved only to be spent later
where craters are created
as if to keep the ground from being sound
along the things we’ve already paved the way for
and already payed for.

I don’t feel free,
or even taken seriously
when the people I’ve been getting to know
are beginning to admit things to me,
that they have already seen
the things I see
and the plea went by unnoticed
beneath the focus of those
who’d share only within their own race.

So I want to break my fists
against your beating heart
so that at the start
we might part ways
like we were parting waves the moment before
they crashed against everything we’ve ever known.

About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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