What is pain….What is joy. What is that feeling I can no longer feel from the numb of a tired soul. And through the silence you expect me to thrive. And through the pain….you think I should survive. After all the tears I’ve cried you wouldn’t care if I was even alive. And my story hurts more than my dreams. My tale sails to the deepest pits of betrayal. My memory…is a nightmare created by what I once called l.o.v.e.
Her name….was beautiful. Majestic joy and for her, I once had love. I once had flowers in the evening. 2 or 3 one dollar carnations of joy. I used to cook, in the morning and eve. I used to listen at night, to her M.Night Shamalan stories of her day. I used to kiss. In bliss I missed…when she would be at work or gone. Because that’s how a man is supposed to treat his girl. Right? And she… used to have a heart. My love once created sparks. And her smile….used to be real. But after I got tested I began to steadily wake up from my fantasy and notice the small things that never where. Like the 10 missed calls on her phone, the carnation filled trash or that sour smell of another mans cologne. I have awaken from the dream because of he. And he is not me. But I have been faithful. I have tried through her lies and now I despise the thought of ever saying I loved her. Because what she got from he…..that std…..she gave to me.
What is love?
My mom was my mother. My mother was my protection and joy. When it was cold she would hold me with love above my crib…until my crib became too big. When it was cold she would read me stories, sitting on the side of my new big bed. Until I became too old for those stories and my room didn’t need a light because I wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore. And even when she wasn’t by my bed I felt her love. When it was cold I didn’t always have good boots but she made sure I had shoes. When it was cold I didn’t always have a nice jacket but she made sure I had warm clothes. And I hated being the bum of the block so I did something about it. And when it was cold she began to ask questions of, “where did you get that from” or “who gave you that”. And the lies I told were too much for her to bare, so when it got cold she looked though my things and found my dope and gun. She kicked me out. And it was cold. I sat at the door crying and begging. Apologizing for my stupid mistakes and she…went cold. I banged on our door until I couldn’t feel my fingers or hands. Until my tears began to freeze. That night in the corner of an alley I cried. I froze and died….from the cold.
What is love?
I was his girl. For years I was his world. And when he went to serve our stars and stripes, I waited. I sat at home for months on end writing letters to him, because he and our son were all I had. I loved him. And at nights when I tossed and turned to his memory I would cry. Until he came home. With joy I held him when he came to the door. And with his new bottle, he held me. For weeks the tossing, turning and crying wasn’t me…but he. And when he awoke from his nightmares of war. He always went back, like a baby seeking milk to that bottle. Drinking more than a fish. And when I was fed up I told him to stop. The glaze rage in his eyes lit up. And he beat me. Under the spell of rage he began to question my love. Question if I was faithful. Question if my son, was also his.
And I couldn’t move. Because he had beat me…..with his love. So when I saw him pull out a gun through my swollen eye I screamed. I couldn’t control it by I did…And that. Was the biggest mistake of my life. Because that scream was a call….to my son. And seeing what he thought wasn’t his boy, he was raged. His eyes were flamed with so much rage. And I was laying in a pool of my emotions. I couldn’t… move. So when he shot my child…I trembled….when he put the barrel to his cheek and pulled. I felt his emotion mix with mine.
What is love?
We all…fall short. Fall short in our idea of what we think to be love. Some worse than others. And yet we all cannot define the word. The words you never or should’ve said don’t speak as loud as our actions. Because the plain truth is…some of us are ugly. Some of us void of any emotion and it is because of…neglect. Many of us are dirty and caught so deep in our baggage, we forget of those around us. We are so drowned in our fantasies of despair we miscomprehend the emotions that are meant to help heal us. The fact is, some of us are ugly….from the inside out. And if my scenarios or tales reflect memories of the past or future I beg you to define that 4 letter word. I beg you to hold its definition to be true.
-Moises Seraphin
