Justice, Walking with a Bag (Aragón, 2015)

You woke up terrified today

You didn’t know who
your You got here

startled numb

no touch feels
even though you ache for a hug

no memory clear
yet the faint memory pounds

You don’t know
where You are

where are You?
can you hear me?
it’s me, your wife

but it wasn’t his fault you tell me
Terrified to grotesque sickness
your body is here
but your soul took a walk

the walk that you have been wide-eyed and desperate for:
an out of body experience
but You didn’t want this kind
No, not this kind

it had to go
i know it will return
it went to rehab
because souls don’t do Trauma

it’s there
but your You
it ran far far away

or told you to fuck off
you think
it would prefer another body

because souls need breaks
from bad memories
so now you have amnesia

You don’t know who is who
and why your You your core
left you

it just up and left
fuck that
it’s hanging out
with the perpetrator

You didn’t ask for it
You didn’t
You didn’t know it was wrong

they told You it was ok
that they do that
that way
and You looked up to them

fit of anger
fit of fear
just fits

another jameson nit please
another jameson alone

when will you come

just more of
this nothing
this nada 
Vacuous &
now at least familiar

where are You
where are You
you You
me me

is this me?

can You
your past
your terror
be me
be now

i watch You
your other You

You do come back
and the nothing goes away
You are back

where did it go?
now You want in?

but You feel alien
who are you, You?
with this
now post rehab bandaged soul

wrapped in those
old memories
that are eerily present
and forgotten all at once

old memories
that haunt
      and      jaunt
now you know they’re there
now you know why Soul left
now you know You are back
with You

and You rage
You fucking rage
your Dismemberment
You rage
your lost Soul’s anger
You rage
to re-member
your lost You
You rage
that fucking asshole
that fucking asshole
that fucking asshole

i watch You in your terror
i bear Witness

and i remind You
i am not him
i am not that memory
i am not him
i am not him

and You cry
i am not him
You sob
Displaced years
i am not him
You quiver
dismembered Soul
i am not your perpetrator
You wail
a child’s uncried Desperation
at age 33

and i bear Witness
and i remind you of who I am
and i bear Witness
to your child’s wandering cry
crawl its way forward
begin to Heal
to reintegrate
into Today

it’s not a perfect script
or arc
or even really like this poem

it’s terrifyingly wretched

i hate him too
i hate all abusers
i fucking hate him and them for
making your You
your Soul feel
And so lost on itself

and to misogyny
for cloaking men in
for being scared

to misogyny
for choking men in
and Repression

yes, i hate You too

but i love You
far more than i hate him
far more than i hate our society
i love You far more than i hate him
i love You far more than i hate them

and so i choose to bear Witness
bear Witness to
the dregs of your child
the dregs of your Soul
Remembering itself
into that You
and this You
all of You

and it’s terrifyingly wretched
and wretchedly beautiful

for even though You woke up terrified
drowning in lived nightmares
now You are awake and being born

and i want all of it
i want all of You

by Vicky Munyoz

 by Fallujah.

who am i?

   Photo Credit: Key Soto

who am i?

to be birthed

on this side of validated dreams

far away from a wall, a fence, a barrio, or a movement

that must claim that their lives do matter, too


who am i?

a person of (pale and blue eyed) color

who decides when and how

to celebrate

her one drop rule

her mixed match blend

or when to melt into

a palette of non-identity glamour


who am i?

to be placed

in so many of the right boxes

to be placed

at so many of the right times


who am i?

what did i do different

than They

than You


but who am i?

not to live out these american dreams

that shall otherwise go, (rest)



who am i not?

if not They

if not You


they told me

to take my deserved place

among the limited amount of stars

who dared an entitled belonging


yes, see they told me

and maybe i would start to see

only maybe

(because i was taught to believe)

and that maybe

(because i believe)

in They, in me

i mean even they keep telling me



maybe i do

maybe i am

maybe i am, We The People


more than They

more than You


stitched, placed




& Blue

my boxes

my stars

my breath

my beauty

my thoughts

my being

my i

my White blood










more than They

more than You


and me

and i

and we,


These Deserving people,

Have worked so hard, (Goddammit)

To wash away

This one drop of color

And those never lived

and unremembered



by Vicky Munyoz

        by Fallujah.