Posies posing perfectly, performing poems

Sometimes life is silver.

It’s silver like Mom’s freshly polished silverware, silver like the tacky chrome on the neighbor’s tricked-out truck, silver like the shiny old coin your grandfather gave you as a child.

Silver is good.

Silver means laughing and creativity and a general overload of energy.

Silver means missing classes because you’re too busy and not showering because you have other things to do and skipping meals because you just don’t have time.

Silver means being on top of the world, flying higher than mankind has ever dared, and being next to godliness.

Silver means too much emotion.

Silver means irrational thoughts.

Silver means credit cards and pills and sex.

A silver too silver means that you’re in an ambulance, sirens wailing, the miles between you and the mental hospital rapidly disappearing.

 ~

Sometimes life is white.

It’s white like the linens your aunt uses at Easter, white like the freshly fallen snow in the winter, white like the swirling patterns of spilt milk.

White is safe.

White means crying when it’s appropriate and regulating behavior like an adult and a general balance of emotions.

White means going to classes because you understand how important education is and showering because taking care of yourself physically is the first step to taking care of yourself mentally and eating every meal because you’re a growing boy.

White means relaxed conversations with family, not being an outcast at school, and philosophical musings with friends about God.

White means stability.

White means reframing negative thoughts.

White means running and pills and coping.

There isn’t a white too white, but you’ve long since learned that there is a white too long, the minutes between you and silver or blue rapidly disappearing.

~

Sometimes life is blue.

It’s blue like the blue bonnets passing by the window on the highway, blue like the endless expanse of sky above you, blue like the icy depths of his eyes.

Blue is bad.

Blue means crying and apathy and a general lack of creativity.

Blue means missing classes because you’re tired and not showering because what’s even the point and skipping meals because you just aren’t hungry anymore.

Blue means worried looks from Mom, useless encouragement from Dad, and hopeless pleas to a non-existent god.

Blue means too much emotion.

Blue means suicidal thoughts.

Blue means razor blades and pills and ropes.

A blue too blue means that you’re in the passenger seat of the family’s sedan, wheels spinning, the miles between you and the mental hospital rapidly disappearing.

It is June 16, 2015. I am at home with my family at the dinner table. “Can you believe this man?” my mother asks, idly rubbing butter on her all-American corn cob. “I think a Cruz presidency would be scarier,” my father replies, the practiced pull of his knife further separating his finely-grilled steak. “Mmm,” my mother assents, carefully shaking salt onto the buttery creation in her hands. “But it’s not like any of them could ever beat Hillary.” At the end of the table, I remain silent.

It is May 26, 2016. I am at home with my family at the dinner table. “Can you believe this man?” my mother asks, precisely stabbing at the leafy greens spread across her plate. “I think that the GOP will never unify behind him,” my father replies, spoon swirling around roasted corn and chicken in the chowder near his plate. “Mmm,” my mother assents, scooping up a crouton and balancing it perfectly on her collection of lettuce. “But it’s not like he could ever beat Hillary.” At the end of the table, I remain silent.

It is July 15, 2016. I am at home with my family at the dinner table. “Can you believe these men?” my mother asks, tenderly scooping filling into the middle of her tortilla. “I think that a man like Pence will only be a detriment to Trump’s campaign,” my father replies, dumping far more salsa than is strictly necessary onto his dinner. “Mmm,” my mother assents, cautiously sprinkling on the perfect amount of cheese. “But it’s not like they could ever beat Hillary.” At the end of the table I remain silent.

It is November 9, 2016. I am on the phone with my family. “Can you believe these people?” my mother asks, scrolling through news reports of riots and racism. “I think the backlash would’ve been worse if Hillary had won,” my father replies, turning off the constant stream of the publicized outrage coming from the television. “Mmm,” my mother assents, switching from the online stories to some blog with ideas for Thanksgiving. “But in four years, there’s no way he could ever beat Hillary.” On the floor beside my bed, I remain silent.

It is November 17, 2016. I’m standing in front of people I do not know. My mother says nothing because she has not truly spoken to me since I told her that I am her son. My father does not reply because he already has one son and does not need another. My mother assents nothing because she lives in a safe place surrounded by safe people. On the stage I can no longer remain silent.

We live in a nation where police provide persecution through poorly portrayed protection and folks clutch religiously righteous rifles to rain down retribution on the remaining rebels of the Republican Reich. And I cannot go a week without witnessing the abhorrent annihilation of another brother or sister in the name of another faceless -ism or -phobia.

“It’s not about social policies,” they assure me. “It’s about economics.” Well, I hope that the bloodmoney you blatantly amassed will bring back the many mountains of bruised and broken morals that your blithe movement botched.

“We’ve survived worse,” they assert. Well, say that to the entire generation lost to an invisible, elusive enemy, one that Reagan allowed to effectively eradicate anyone against the American homogeny.

“We’re all adults!” they cry. “Why can’t we just respect each other’s differences?” Well, I will respect our differences when the difference between us is no longer that you do not respect me.

You showed up to that booth and in one fell swoop placed a plethora of people in preposterous proportions of peril. My friends and neighbors face numerous ne'erdowells who negotiate in negative nouns and damning details.

I can no longer remain silent because in doing so I have signed my own death certificate, and I will have let them win.

I will not let the maniacal machinations of a megalomanic man mark me for murder.

I will not wait for my own wake.

and each tear   like a scab being torn      like a scar being worn         like a star being born brings the twig to bareness

it removes the shell that protects it from hell and renders it   useless from the elements   from the animals      from mankind

but in that uselessness lies beauty in a rare, unnatural form and in our futility lies beauty like we’ve never seen before

because to lie open   bared and broken,      bringing the banter          and bustle of life             to a breaking halt lies beauty

and to lie bare   organically opens      partially pointed parts         only observed by            privately privy parties and in that lies beauty

because those twigs those sticks are a part of something greater and maybe so are we