The Colors Are My Tears

The Colors Are My Tears

(“Speak up for the people who have no voice, for the rights of all the misfits.” Proverbs 31:8 [The Message])

You thought it was artwork,
stained glass and holy when
all the while the colors
were my tears.

Life is messy and my voice is muted,
all I want is someone to shout to the void
for me,
bring a bowl of overflow
to me.

My soul is shriveled,
a black hole full of lead.
My thoughts are desperate even though
I had a respite for a week or two.

But this battle is well-known,
I carry the arrows that pierce me in plain sight.
I want an invitation to drink without judgment.
I want your tears to replace my own.
I want to be hugged for weeks, not sent
thoughts from afar.
I want you to speak! I want you to speak
up for me.

And now that I write this,
anyone who reads will tell me again
to
get over it.
I would get over it if only it was
over.

Here are my hands, palms up.
Here are my eyes, dried up.
What did you expect from the shivers that
come from suffering?

I don’t want to ask for help. Everyone already knows
this battle. They can see the smoke rising daily from
the fire that burns my brain.

It’s been fifteen years. And still no one
knocks on my door.
It’s been fifteen years. And still I feel
forgotten and ignored.

So, I’ll pour it out today. I’ll send it up tonight
like a fiery flare into the sky.
If you look at the moon tonight
and see orange lights where they should not appear;
call me tomorrow and find your way to my door.

I weep with my friends whose pain is different than mine.
Pour some tears on my wounds this time.

The day was bright, the sky was clear,
but the sunshine felt intrusive, the silence shouted
between my ears.

I apologize. I will wait another year before I ask again.
Everyone talks over me.