My friends say I am angry 
but I don’t feel it. Stupid
really, waste of energy being
offended.  You are brilliant,
creative, vibrant (fucking) perfection
nice and far away – okay –
near and inside me breathing in
and out and through. Sure. 
You are love. 
Here is not. Here is broken, a
confused man on the bus glaring
hate while my eyes fix away, still
knowing because the fury rolls off
him like a fog. Here is cancer and 
depression and too often hair-
slicked back on preachers smiling
bright box teeth and selling hell for 
a living. Living
here certain of all the whys
and what everyone deserves. I 
don’t blame you for this. 
Free will is part of the 
contract. We can roll over 
this groaning planet and rape
and pillage and kill. Sharp ends
from our dirty means, and a feast for
all the carnivores.  So where there
is all your love down low, with the
dogs underneath the table?  How do
I find you here, on the bus, carefully ignoring the fury man?  I used to think
you’d protect me. Now, I think maybe
you’d just know what a beating 
feels like. Love me past my PTSD, in
my weakness see past to who
I really am.  I’m uncertain and
I’m okay with that. I don’t want
principles as though we could understand your mind.  Send me 
a friend to sit next to at the next business dinner so I don’t have 
to hide my shaking. Send me some marijuana so I can sleep without my back on fire. I know you could heal it, and that would be cool, but I don’t want to hold you to it. You’re big. I’m small. 
I get it. Just please don’t put me in a 
box and label me. Talk to me like a 
person. See me. Want me. Keep
me even though you’re (fucking)
perfect.