societal wars.

i’m stuck in a town that smells like
the sea, that’s forcing its briny
religion down onto me. we fish all day,
feast all night,
and the atlantic breathes into our
coastal town with all her
might. we thrive on falsehoods
and sleep to the sound of what we should,
could, and never would,
only to awaken to the burden of a guilty heart
and a hollow chest stuffed full of
broken parts.

our most beautiful export: boys with
tails instead of feet, girls with pearls for eyes,
and water butterflies
that speak only lies. the boys had ribs
in their throats
and four spines each, spikes with prickly thorns
and razor-sharp teeth to
tear open our flesh like a ripened
peach.

the girls are blind with their need for
sunshine, shimmering hips and
tight-lipped mouths to steepen our climb.

these water butterflies bless our town
and we keep them in the steel-vaulted birdcage
in the square, for merry visitors
to stop by and hear their rumored tales,
to regard their fables if they
dare.

i’m stuck in a town where boys are birthed
from the ocean, and girls are forgotten
unless they have a dollar sign above
their heads, given to
a city of fools that know no sin nor
vices to be bled.

there was a time when the
ocean boys loved the girls that wear dresses,
their wet hair and flashing eyes alluring
to the girls with a fancy
for dripping tresses. and there was a day
when the girls
longed for those who now know their
fate,
who now stuff them into a
bag of water and into a crate.

young children strip our fairytale
telling butterflies
of the waterproof wings
that drag strings of blue across our
decadently grey sky; if only our
heavens were the same
to those that are just passing by.

to heal our town of mischief and grief,
of greed and strife,
to alleviate the pressure of
not understanding another’s
plight, we must first listen:
listen to the birds that sing songs of
boys without a mother and girls
who are trained to gleam and glisten.

listen, they plead,
they need you to heed; they inspire
you to know
just what you’re causing
and just in how many ways you’re making them
bleed. the townspeople, they spoke in hushed
tones about a boy who
fished and felt pity for all those
poor lost children who just wanted to
grow.

they named him atlas for carrying the
burden of the legion
of our sea;
his middle name was light
because he was the beginning of the
war to be.

a blush of panic and the town was a mess,
blood flowing into the streets, our bodies
hemorrhaging with stress; a fervent
rebellion coursing through our veins,
forcing us into our flotilla fleets like
tracks to trains. armadas of the sea,
armies of the land,
infecting the earth, the coastline
earth where we once shared
our glee.

but the boys, they swore; the girls,
they cried;
however, the butterflies,
they simply continued to lie. the men,
they fought;
the women, they vanquished;
but the boy named atlas light,
he had soon vanished.

…

i’m blessed with a sea
that gives me all that i could ever
strive to be. six years have
passed and there have been
no struggles,
no interference from the world
outside;
but of course,
the butterflies:
they’ve all continued to
lie.