Spy by Lucky Brown-Martin
You never forget what it’s like to grow up in a war zone
Running and hiding from the surprise attacks
Dancing through minefields, each footstep a potential explosion
Holding your breath and holding your tongue
Too afraid to give away your position
Because every time you let your guard down
That’s when the fires of battle burn brightest
What they never mention about war is the cost
An arm; a leg; a voice; a childhood; a soul;
You give whatever she it takes for survival
Unknowingly paying your fare to cross the river styx
Yeah sticks and stones may break my bones
But words, they have unearthed me
I’ve lost my roots, not that it matters
Seeds sewn in war zones never seem to bloom
Watered only by blood and deprived of the light how could they
I’ve never seen the son she wanted me to be
I live in the shadows of her expectations
But for her I pretend to be something that I’m not
Whole
Until I can no longer hide that I’m broken
I’ve lost more than a few pieces, but she can’t tell how many are missing
I’m afraid that if I let her see, she’ll pull at my seams until I’m completely undone
So instead, I fall in line
Be her not-so-perfect little soldier
At least on the surface, but what she doesn’t know is that I’m a spy
Biding my time until the time is right to fight for my freedom
She’s so blinded by the fight she forgets that I’ve always been her prisoner
But she never forgets to remind me of what she no longer knows
There’s a bayonet aimed at my back
Is it there by choice or has muscle memory taken over her mind?
I ask myself this question on loop and I almost let my guard down for the first time in years
I feel a sharp pain and I’m watered by blood once more
But I’m on her side this time, so why?
It takes being stabbed again and again to realize there is no why to war
It seems I was the one who forgot this time
I’m still her little spy in disguise
LUCKY BROWN-MARTIN (they/he) is Chicago-born poet who writes about love,
mental health, childhood trauma, spirituality, and politics. Through the art of poetry,
they attempt to healthemselves, as well as heal the unheard, unseen parts of
others.
