The Stones Bleed Like Me

I used to pray  

someone like you was real—  

so strong, so kind.  

I’d beg for you  

to come to my island,  

to do for me  

what I’d seen you do  

for others:  

Liberation.

I didn’t know the word,  

but my heart knew.  

Then, like always,  

the dream would end.  

The TV hissed to black,  

and there I was—  

just a child,  

staring into the obsidian mirror  

of the screen,  

face to face  

with my own hopelessness.  

Alone.