Poetry: Other people’s blood

I don’t know how to talk about this other than it’s fucked up how some people lose their shit over fiction while pretending reality doesn’t exist to the point where they will trivialise or literally deny other people’s experiences just because they don’t want to have to think about anything that doesn’t fit neatly into their narrow, tidy little hyper-moralistic worldview.

Or it’s just some personal crap or some kind of therapy or whatever. I wrote it today and I’m posting it today because it is what it is and it doesn’t feel like a thing I want to edit into something shiny and perfect.

Anyway.

Other people's blood

other people’s blood
is never as warm as your own
not in terms of temperature
but its separateness
strangers’ blood is cold like distance
your own is heavy, reflective
and equally meaningless

  look at the damage those TV shows are doing!

however many storeys up or feet away
or behind glass or encased in metal, lucky
means it isn’t happening to you (this time)
even small and raw and unprotected and determined
walking like the eye of the storm, fists curled
and you are untouched. there but for the grace of-
you pray in the wrong direction (just give me an excuse)

   those films are a terrible influence!

there are sounds you cannot paint over
1. bombs detonating (you hear those in your gut)
2. gunshots (you hear those in your ribs)
3. the tenacious rattle of the deadbolt on your front door
4. the wintery crack of fracturing bones
5. the machine hammer of helicopter blades in a 3am heartbeat
6. “it’s not that bad”

  playing those video games will desensitise you!

memory is an indelible tension of muscles
an automatic twitch of the knuckles
an unconscious awareness of unexpected movements
anger can masquerade convincingly as anxiety for years
and speaking of convincing masquerades
there is fight or flight or fine i’m fine i’m fine
(i’m sorry, i just want to be kind)

  this is what happens when you read books like that!

there are histories formed in quiet stone
sunk to the dark silt below simplistic assumptions
and there is still not entirely trusting your own reflexes
because. because. but there is accepting them. all the
well-meaning fifty minute hours in the world won’t rebuild
a thing. that is not your architecture (and it’s alright)
you, you are labyrinthine and infinite

  how are we supposed to preserve innocence when we turn violence into entertainment?

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