Survivor's guilt sounds
like my sister getting beat in the next room
for something I know I did.
That's the thing-- I did.
I did not. Did, did not.
I did I did I did NOTHING.
Survivor's guilt looks
like Ricky's loaded trigger--
a round he lost in life,
but found in his gun:
A bullet that cried like an ambulance come too late.
A bullet that cries about what could have been done
besides taking refuge in a blossoming mind.
A bullet that will weep relentlessly
because everyone survived
except for Ricky.
Or at least I used to believe so.
My guilt looks
like mildew and a bouqet of flowers.
Flowers for the dead
and mildew for the tears still staining
This skin, this skin--
well I didn't think it was fitting to wear
the same thing I did when
my grandmother passed
or when I witnessed
souls run cold like stiff breezes
so I tried to cut the pieces
that are still present,
make an offering,
punish myself for what I did.
Did not. I did. I did not.
Did not did not did not.
I did nothing.
Survivor's guilt feels
like neglecting to reject the parts
of me that don't speak up
when someone drinks poison
and expects me to die.
Congrats--I'm tough as nails
but still eating knuckle sandwiches
and air sandwiches trying to unbruise,
trying to undo my siblings' tragedy.
I know I caused them a lot of pain.
I did but did not releive the
verbal, the physical, the emotional torture.
Though I was on both ends
of our father's angst and there are still things
we don't speak about,
I know that calling Him "daddy"
was a golden apple my siblings couldn't
sink their teeth into.
Survivior's guilt smells
like all the roses I didn't find
trying to learn to love myself
when no one else would.
Just thorns and green buds
buried, reproducing the kind of hatred
branded on my insides
and carved on my flesh.
This I did. Did not.
I did not. I did
I did I did
I did the unthinkable and sailed across
the sea of How Many Cares Don't I Give
When Trying To Off Myself So Im Not A
Component of Insanity But An Object Of
Survivior's guilt tastes
like words on the tip of my tongue
but choking back my voice
instead of these useless tears.
It tastes like kissing a pair of scissors
or a flat iron or a sewing needle.
Tastes like wasn't I raised to be
less than speaking up by way of scar tissue
Voices in my head make oblivion feel like home
but survivior's guilt is the barrier bewtween
how I survived and thoughts rampantly dripping with
Suicide in 31 Flavors.
And I did not.
I did I did I did