Early in the morning, (12:45am), sitting on the ridiculously comfortable recliner in the den of some of my closest friends’ house in Kansas. Said my temporary goodbyes to California last week, but I’ll be back to bring in the new year. Every day that I’ve been here, I feel the stress and anxiety dripping off of me. Every day that I’m away from the things that call upon my time and energy I feel rejuvenated. I haven’t been this relaxed in years.

Looking back at my emotional state two weeks ago is startling. It was scary how close to the edge I was, how totally defeated I felt. The lingering pain is still there, but it’s not the knock-down, devastating wreck that it was. Maybe it’s true that time heals all wounds. But I feel more open than I have in years as well. More vulnerable, but in a good way. More willing to make connections. Maybe it’s true that there’s a silver lining to everything as well.

I’ve been a very closed off person for a long time. Years of perceived failure, coupled with a crippling fear of rejection left me a hopeful guy with impenetrable walls. But in mere weeks she tore down those walls like they were cheap plaster. Took the scabs I willingly placed over every inch of my heart and ripped them off. She burrowed her way into my very psyche, and destroyed nearly every barrier I had ever put up to stop that precise thing from happening.

In the wake of coming to terms with the fact that another relationship didn’t work out, I didn’t see at first the gift she had left me. That even as she stole away a piece of me that I didn’t know I had left to give, instead of feeling hopeless, I actually feel hopeful. Hopeful for the future. She showed me that life without these walls is hard. It’s harsh, and it hurts, and a lot of things that didn’t seem painful before, are painful now. But at the same time a lot of things I didn’t let myself feel, I’m letting myself feel now.

It’s scary to contemplate the idea of being so open. But once down, I can’t find it in me to try rebuilding those walls. Maybe it’s true that those who wear their heart on their sleeves get burned more easily than those who don’t. I don’t know. What I do know is that life looks brighter and more appealing with these walls down. Things don’t seem as dark as they did before. It feels like even though things will hurt more readily, I’m stronger than I was before her.

It feels like 2016 is going to be a good year.

I’m tired. Not tired after a long day at work tired. Not tired like after a hard work out tired. Those tireds are the good kind of tired that makes you smile at the end of the day when you put your head on the pillow tired. No I’m the kind of tired were getting out of bed in the morning takes every single ounce of effort you have. This is soul tired. Tired of having to be the sole bread winner. Tired of having to make all of the decisions. Tired of doing all of the chores, refereeing the kids fights. Tired of paying all the bills, moving the car and putting out the garbage. Be grateful people say. Count your blessings, think of all who don’t have a job, a family, a car. I am grateful, I’m grateful for all I have it doesn’t change how I’m tired of doing this thing called life without someone to share the burden, the joy, the love. Pay me no mind, I’m just tired. Tomorrow will be a better day. 

A cacophony of shadows, and all I feel is fear, because I've come here to die once before; terrified this time a silhouette makes its way to stay - all the grey area has left me a shadow, and everyone knows shadows are distorted reflection, uninspired and cast - actors.

In the brightest point of day they grow ahead or follow, regardless, slaves of the sun, they expose the darkness that remains within.

A body may create from that darkness, but a shadow is a slave. Reduced to a shallow shade of what I used to be, inspired, enlightened, even frightened.

Here I find nothing left for me to create but everything left to destroy, my words mere echoes of past experiences.

Without her faith, I have no magic left to turn my tales of trauma into essays of conviction, poems of a purposeful past, or meaningful memories.

My future has turned to ash, and without her I shy down to a shadow.

I remember walking home bloody

and walking in the front door

to the old man at the table

smoking cigarettes

with my mom

and when he asked me

what my problem was

I told him since we’d

moved there

a week ago

two boys older than me

two grades higher

were chasing and beating me

after school

while I tried to make it

across the field to our house

and every day it’s gotten

worse

until today when

they finally drew blood

my mother hustled to the

kitchen for the bottle of

shitty, burning-orange salve

to make the cuts worse and

while she rubbed it into the gaps of

blood and dirt and small rocks

in my knees and palms and forehead

the old man told me tomorrow on the way

home, I was to take my time across

the field, and when the two of them

stopped me

to punch the biggest one

square in the nose

and not to return home

until I did

and if I didn’t

then to plan on sleeping outside

without supper

or anything else

my mother started going on about

how she was going to call the school

and that I should report the

boys to the principal or vice principal

or to the teacher

but the old man saved me

the trouble of explaining

to her that no matter

how that was played out

I’d be labeled a rat

and I’d have it even worse

and the best way from A

to Z was a straight line

and it was time for me

to start figuring things

out and she started inventing

ways I could reason with the

boys, or how they could talk to

their parents, all the other angles

but he we wasn’t budging

and even after I left the room

they kept it going

I barely slept that night

because I took the old man

seriously

with his long beard

and tattooed fingers

back when no other dad had

such things

and also because I didn’t know

how to throw a punch

or if I could even reach the

bastard’s nose

and I was terrified

but the day was over

and I walked the field home

and the two boys were

there

and the books and folders

and backpack were again

knocked out of my hands

and I was again shoved to the

ground

and my adrenaline was boosted

and I could feel the old man

somehow watching me

and I went ahead and

brought it up

and hit the big one

on the nose

and the blood spat sideways

and he went down instantly

screaming a high pitched wail

while his buddy ran off

and a crowd formed and

I picked up my shit

walked home

where my knuckles

throbbed and my mom

wrapped my hand with

ice crushed in a wet wash rag

and the old man laughed

and nodded at me

and told me

once I took shit once,

I’d take it for the rest

of my life

and from then on

I had no trouble at school

but today this would be

“offensive”

and barbaric

the old man would be in jail

or slapped with some lawsuit

and

I’d be a pariah

and we’d be all over YouTube

today, instead of teaching our children to

truly stand up for themselves

they revert to their natural

forms of confusion

and cut their own flesh or

they blow each other away or

they commit suicide

on the Internet

due to

bullying.