"I am open palms of contradiction..."

I am open palms of contradiction.
Even my mother trembled as she
placed her arms around my heavy shoulders.
Behind laugh lines
singing crescendos of fake smiles, I ask;
do my tears ever roll down your cheeks?

Is there anything worse than the silence
coming from your brother and sisters?
Pleading, begging, screaming for anything;
a question, an apology, a pair of bloody fists.
I never fumbled on the word gay.
Took me three times to convince mom
I prefer boys over girls, and she
finally believed me when I brought someone home.
“I guess this isn’t a phase after all” she said.
I now understand why she wished it was;
it had nothing to do with me,
it had everything to do with me.

I wanna go back to converse days
and blowing tokes out car windows.
I still carry the ability to cool fires with water,
but I stopped carrying redemption in my pocket,
and I’m a few seconds short of a punchline.
I find forgiveness just in time, all the time
except for the time an anonymous message
revealed a cryptic warning that changed my life.

When they told me I have HIV
I lost my breath,
sculpting this silent scented coma
forever looking for clean air, and
my old razor scars began bleeding again.
I’ve stopped carrying things in my pocket
because I can’t f*****g fix this.
As time is ticking
I’m still laughing, still smiling,
as always I contradict.

This f****t doing factory work in a steel city
inhabited by a den of howling wolves and cackling coyotes.
This f****t prepared for a funeral he wasn’t ready to bury
the body for, but taken to church I sell
open arms door to door, and I found a room
of strangers singing poetic verses,
and I thought nobody would understand this broken language,
but reassurance meant there is no hate inside this room.

I become a storm of thunder clouds
and flaming f**k you’s real quick,
but as I used to keep redemption
in my pocket, I remember to close my eyes,
keep smiling, so they never know
I turn turn each morning into reason.
I have the ability to change a Slovakian 73 year old
from threats to respect, from fighter to brother,
and I could only learn this from collecting
promises built by this splintered family
of bruises and spilled blood, except this time
they’re scared of my blood, and I never
want to break my mother’s heart ever again.

This isn’t your burden mum,
this isn’t your pain.
That’s why I moved out,
visiting once a week ‘cause
nothing will ever be the same.

I know miles will cut phone calls short, and time
is relentless as age cuts every hour,
and I know my family wants to be there for me,
but I don’t know how long I’ll be here for them.
I become dumbfounded while keeping my hands
inside empty pockets, and when
the phone begins to ring,
you won’t be a missed call.
I promise not to miss a dosage.
I promise I won’t be a buried son
for this sun still seeks his rise.