if i’d

if i’d been reacting in an age-appropriate manner to destruction all my life, maybe i’d know how to feel now.

if i’d been honest voicing my frustration with destruction all my life, maybe i’d know how to speak now.

but maybe i can learn. but maybe i don’t have to.

i can only feel what rocks my boat. i can only speak of what i know. i know corruption. i know injustice. i know tears. i know frustration. but when they come packaged in a wrapping i’ve never seen, i’m silent.

katrina is a foreign wrapping. i look at her and have minimal emotions. but i look at what she’s unearthed and i stare as a million thoughts run without order through my veins, the thoughts that have kept my blood running, have kept my hands writing.

why must it take us so long to love each other? why do we choose to fight instead of to love?