Walk like a Poet

The last two weeks have been a blur. Since the elections back home, the protests, the killings. Been overwhelmed by emotions and lack of clarity. Head full. Body sore. Trying to keep it together. Life goes on here, responsibilities and commitments. To family, to friends, to the youth I work with, to the new person in my life. To myself. My birthday just passed a few days ago. But I wasn't feeling it. I drank hard, trying to escape something deep in my bones. That night I curled into myself, head buried into my hands, trying to get the breaths in and out. The tears came after, when he placed my hand on his chest and stroked my hair.

I haven't been able to think about anything but what is happening back home. My family, friends, people I don't know who are risking everything. I'm caught in some kind of cyber-purgatory, waiting to hear what's coming next. Twitter feeds, facebook, youtube, skype. Bad connection cutting conversations short. Just enough time to say I love you. I hope you are ok. I am thinking of you every single second of my day. Even when I'm not.

I got more ink on my body a few days ago. A birthday present to myself. The only two hours in 1o days where I breathed easy. His touch soothed. We talked about zombies, Motley Crue, bad sex, and the new Guillermo Tel Torro book. Wound heal wound, he said as he hugged me goodbye. I hope and pray there's resolution in your homeland so you can enjoy your life.

I hope and pray the same thing for those being beaten to death for walking the streets and speaking their hearts.

I'm in a perpetual state of mourning, while trying to find the beautiful things in between breaths. And here I am, blogging about things I haven't been able to articulate to those closest to me. I'm feeling messed up. That's what I say. It's the truth. But what about what's in my bones? What about sore limbs?

What about walking hard?

And yet I feel these words are another step closer...

so I write.