I lost a piece of myself today.

I’m not sure if it was integral,

but it’s gone and will never come back.

I’m lighter and simpler,

but also less of a person.

I have a little less love,

a little less purpose.

And one day in the future

there will be a day when I have nothing left

and the weariness will be too much,

and that day will be my death.

There’s no suicide

that can kill me worse

than what’s already been done.

My heart has turned to dust

and blown away in the winter wind

and I’m left with barren branches,

sharp, dark, and twisted,

gnarled black arms and legs,

insides infested

with the vermin of loneliness

feasting on whatever organs they can find.

I’ve fallen

and have very little bone or muscle left.

I’m just waiting for the flames of the incinerator

to torch whatever’s left,

leaving only ashes

and maybe a single ember

ready to ignite some sort of rebirth.

One day I’ll stop writing

these depressed jumbles of words.

One day I’ll be back to

suns and moons,

stars sprinkled across the purple night,

fields of yellow daffodils,

flowers licking the fog and mist

with thin petals,

grass lapping up the dewdrops,

children chasing fireflies

in the still summer night

when the crickets hum

and the air caresses

like a warm mother.

One day that’s not today.

One day if I live so long.

One day when the sun shines

just a little brighter.

What do you do when you’re 46, alone, and lonely? That’s what I asked myself as I stood at the cliff edge looking down. The water was so beautiful, shimmering blue and green as it danced around rocks and sprinted under bridges. The town was not far away, a survivor of many floods, living through countless deaths and rebirths. I lifted a foot and prepared to leap, closing my eyes to this life. I remembered my children and turned away from the cliff edge.

That’s when a rock gave underneath my left foot and I slipped. I felt myself sliding down the rock face and it seemed to take hours, and there was nothing for me to grab ahold of. I saw all of my exes, wives and lovers. Dead relatives and living ones. My children’s faces. I saw the drunken nights in bars pleading with women who didn’t want me. I saw the sober nights alone in my bed, on my couch. I saw the intermittent nights where I found love, or at least companionship, and I saw God. He had blonde hair and glasses and was just watching me as I slipped off the last sliver of slanted rock.

I plummeted like a baby bird pushed out of its nest too soon. I saw rock and sky, trees and buildings, rock and sky, and then the hit. Pain shot through me like a violent tornado of hammer smashes. Red and black and loud like a million canons. My scream was silence and my vision was black followed by the bright light of a blazing star. The light engulfed every part of my being, conscious and subconscious, reality and dreams.

I was in the sand. I expected to be bruised and battered but I was in perfect condition, wet and naked. I saw the impression of flames around me for a split second but they disappeared. People were looking at me funny. Parents were hiding their children’s eyes as they walked past. I stood and saw muscles gleaming in the sunlight. I needed clothes.

I walked into town, my bare feet stepping on hard cobblestones, and a policeman approached. His face was hard concrete.  “What sort of stunt is this?” he asked. “Are you one of them leftist commie nudists or somethin? You can go back to your commune after you pay your fine and serve your jail time.”

“I… I fell,” I said, confused and frightened. I was suddenly surrounded by heat and orange and yellow light. I instinctually shot up into the sky, a trail of flame behind me, and I became a bird with feathers of fire. I flew until I hit the atmosphere, and shot through, burning my way into space.

It was a dark and lonely place, but it was beautiful. I could see the planets, impossibly large celestial shapes. I was in a place of vast emptiness and spinning things. I shot past them into a universe of massive, amoebic light and color. I flew until I found new worlds, new spheres of water and land. I only needed to choose one to call home.

My fear of death

is going to kill me.

My fear of the future.

is going to destroy it.

My children are the thread

I hang on by.

I don’t want to be here

but I keep struggling,

keep pushing

through the swamp murk,

the thick mud

streaked with blood.

There is no reason

but I keep going,

hoping that one day

there might be,

before the ever advancing

ghost of death,

my ghost,

my dark shadow,

finds me.

Is this finally it?

The day I dust off the debris,

pick myself up

enough to take a step

and another.

Start walking

towards the haze and fog,

listen to the steamboats

moan in the mist.

Is this the day

I speed to a jog?

Breathing heavily,

lungs struggling

to take in polluted air.

And then tomorrow

I’ll run,

legs like lightning,

wind rushing past

as I burn my way

towards the future.

I’m waiting

for lunch to be served

with an empty chair

looking back at me;

the nothingness

is my date today.

It watches me

with empty eyes,

facing me constantly,

ignoring me

and my shattered dreams.

I wonder

if someone will land there

one day.

Will it be my mirror image?

My soul mate,

my other half,

who thinks the same,

walks and talks the same,

enjoys the same things.

Will it be a one night stand?

Who graces my bed

for a night

and disappears

like the moon and stars.

Or will the chair remain empty?

My date for years to come

until I’m finally betrothed

to death.

Fuck you.

Fuck your mom, your dad, your grandma and your grandpa and all your fucking ancestors.

Fuck all those guys with hot girlfriends.

Fuck their hot girlfriends and their wives.

Fuck whores.

Fuck strippers, fuck porn stars, fuck YouTube personalities and TikTok dancers.

Fuck actors and actresses, fuck musicians, fuck rappers, fuck rock stars, fuck writers, fuck poets, fuck spoken word artists.

Fuck artists.

Fuck literary magazines, fuck newspapers, fuck the internet.

Fuck republicans, fuck democrats, fuck independents.

Fuck communists and anarchists.

Fuck racists, fuck nazis, fuck skinheads, fuck the KKK.

Fuck sexists and homophobes and bigots.

Fuck politicians, fuck guns, fuck the fucking NRA.

Fuck atomic bombs and jet fighters.

Fuck Christmas, fuck New Years, fuck Easter, fuck Columbus Day, fuck National We Won a War Day.

Fuck bunnies, fuck kittens, fuck puppies.

Fuck those guys who stand at the urinal next to you and try to talk to you while you’re taking a fucking piss.

Fuck slow drivers, fuck fast drivers.

Fuck everybody and everything.

Fuck you and the fucking horse you rode in on.

I’ve stopped loving.

I’ve stopped caring

about the fallout,

the burning debris

that will flash out

from the explosions.

I’ve stopped loving.

I’ve stopped living.

I’ve stopped caring

about shadows

and stars and moons

and suns and dreams.

I’ve stopped dreaming.

I’m numb

and going through motions,

carried on a stretcher

into the war zone

to a burning hospital

wracked by bombs

and artillery shells.

I’ve stopped writing.

I’ve stopped caring.

I’ve stopped loving.

When you’re in the darkness

clamoring, stumbling,

crying out for help,

reach out.

When you start to see

God’s hand,

reach further.

When you start to see

God’s finger,

grab ahold of it

with all your might,

and before you know it,

you’ll be resting

in God’s hands.