Mentioning the Honorable

I’m giving this bouquet of flowers

to those who are living quietly,

almost seemingly among the dead.

To the black sheep who heal in private,

because the world silenced them

every time they spoke their wound,

and then knifed them

every time they spoke their truth.

For the souls who survive every day,

who wake up and choose life—

and not just choose to get out of bed,

but choose not to bury themselves

under sheets of shame.

Who know that they are gifted, shining

but have been forced to dim their light

because it blinds everybody around them.

And they can’t help it.

They shine.

I need you to know

that we are lighthouses.

You will trigger

the ghosts and demons

of those closest to you,

and they will conveniently get amnesia.

They will forget how they harmed you.

They have state-based memory;

they only remember you

when they are in states of unrest,

because your light soothes them.

It calms them.

It makes them docile.

They crave it when you’re gone,

but they do very little

to stoke the fire

or pay the utility

to keep it on.

They make you run

like a hamster in a wheel

just to light your own way.

So here’s to the black sheep seers

who came into this world

seeing everyone’s woundings—

who see not only their childhood trauma,

but their parents’, their siblings’, their lovers.

Who go to therapy

when they know that everyone

in their home

should be the one

on the therapist’s couch.

Who martyr themselves,

medicate themselves,

pathologize themselves,

to make themselves palatable

for people who are committed

to misunderstanding them.

I see you.

And I need you to know

that God vindicates,

that Source loves,

that Gaia heals,

and that you were never alone.