the sound inside oneself
there never were enough poems written
to make the dead feel loved; to make her
arms stop bleeding, praying for her bones to be different.
but revolutions are too quiet; too
mellow from the bullets, not hard
enough to stop him from jumping.
crawl through their ashes and spray paint
what the dead so desperately needed
before they were pushed so far out
that the cliff never existed; before all the love had left their faces.
sometimes the revolt starts with the sound inside oneself.