It’s not that I shoulder a navy pack on my disintegrating back. It’s not that I actually swallowed the kind of pills that retch even the rage out until I could not keep anything down, and so I turn instead to my veins in one extinguishing, bloody hope. It’s because I know what it feels like to not have home, to carry someone else inside but have nowhere for either of us to sleep, and every creak of someone else’s bed creates more distance in my ribs until you can fit a fist between the bones and rip out even the last drip of dignity that used to work well for me. And I do know what it means to have to rely on white powder, liquid or tablet just to keep alive, how easily the scales of addiction can tip, how simple to say, this is it, pour it all out on the table alongside a filthy cup brimming with rusty water. So when I turn away, when I sentence my eyes to the earth and cannot look you in the face, it is not because I don’t love you in my own agape way. It is because seeing you reminds me how desperately close we all are, how each mutter we make in the boardroom or on a templated page can literally mean the difference between someone turning CEO and someone silenting through aging pavement, seeping into subways and ground soil, turning reservoirs a deeper shade of brown, reminding each of us we could have been the one to stop it. Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright March 22, 2024, all rights reserved **I named this Part II because I have a similar poem in my book Poems from the Battlefield.
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