She was a Dam

I didnt edit this! yikes.

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The way she unraveled was magical. The whole process worth watching. Truly a work of scything furry and fists clenched ready to punch whole troves of air. She, tooth and nail style, fought every bit of herself. –Why are you so strong? Why do you want this so badly? Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Leave me alone. She was strong. She could never see herself in this position. Ever. She knew better. Well, knew she could be better (was better) than slinking to the floor like a loose dress, wrinkles stacked on each other, offering the full give up. Her chest was bear-hugging itself. She couldn’t move her lungs past her ribs. All was heaving with spectacular confusion. The walls of her tiny bedroom pulsated, shuttering her eyeballs and causing her whole face to scrunch. Was this an actual physical pain? No. She had trained herself to fend for herself and push past sadness. For years she had accepted it all. She dealt with all. She was a grownup trouncing around with openness and patience and a stellar heart. No, no. This couldn’t be heartache. No way. Something else. Maybe heartburn! Hahahaha…The thought of her heart scorched and toasted by a spicy salsa or lightly burnt on the edges by a heavy meal was much more appealing. Not to mention the imagery lent itself to a few brief moments of distraction. Her legs now felt the pull of gravity. She fell to her lavender sheeted bed, the temperature matching the cool color tones of her comforter. What the hell? This was laughable, being this week. Okay, it wasn’t being this weak, but really feeling so deeply like this. And especially about something as silly and as small as this. How is it possible? The bed swallowed her now. Or she wanted it to. Take me away. Just for a bit. This is so…ridiculous.--

Trevor Maylor. 6th grade. That little prick. He tried kissing her once before and she avoided it. The toss of her head made a perfect hair slap in the face. But she could not avoid it this time. They were by the vending machines after school. She just wanted a Sprite. She didn't want to kiss him. So she told him. Loudly. With wild gestures and verbal ridicule that only a 12 year old girl with mountain sized self-dignity could produce. And what did he do? He grabbed her and kissed her anyway. His big wet lips, much bigger than hers, right on her face. Right smack dab in the middle of her mouth with force and gusto! It was warm and she felt the smash of faces. His little prick nose smooshing her adorable little one. Yes Yes. –

“no!”

And in an instant her first kiss was stolen by a little boy with more freckles than hair in his armpits. That was not the way she wanted it to be. No this way. Not so…gooey. Why? Why did he do that? Why would he think it was okay to steal what was not his? What a little prick! So little!

She actually ran away. One of the only times in her life she ran away and not into the trouble. But this was different. This was truly personal. This was deep. This was her first damn kiss and it was stripped away. She was so exposed and violated and destroyed. She heaved. She scraped the air around her, desperately trying to gather oxygen for her lungs. Her ribs, like fingers or tree roots, began to wrap themselves around her heart---

Was the blackness getting lighter? Is that possible? Her room was now more visible. Everything had a slight tint of blue. or Gray. Grayish blue and splatters of black. The only warm color was coming from the light post 20 feet outside her window. With the blinds open her face was lit in slats, giving her a mysterious and movie-like quality. She liked that. Maybe she could go sit out at the lamp post. Sit under it. Just to the left of it. And someone could see her from her window or from about 20 feet away and take a picture and say ‘that looks like a movie. Man, that girl must be troubled. She must be going through it’ She could be noticed like in a movie and all this heaviness would make sense. These dramatics would be justified by the scenery around her and the simple mood the misty light set. Her real loneliness exposed under a lamp post at night. How cool. Stop. Stop it.

This is a problem that can be felt and solved. She was certainly not a robot. She felt. Oh, did she feel. She had trained herself to feel. Feel all that passed in front of her. Strangely enough, she always felt, but never lost control. Never wanted to scream. She had nothing to scream about. She made sure she had nothing to scream about. There is nothing to scream about. She wasn’t losing it. No. She was feeling it. She was feeling the loss. She was feeling her loneliness. That is all. He didn’t mean that much. Really? He meant a lot. Don’t say otherwise, please. Okay, he did mean something, but not enough to cause a whole earthquake. She sat up and pressed her back against the wall her bed was positioned against. It cooled her whole body. She leaned harder, letting her skin stick---

What would he look like without hair? He’d still be cute. She told herself that he would still look really really cute. Oh no, maybe he would have a peanut shaped head. Or worse, it’d be pale with a giant divot. Could she still be attracted to a man without hair? He was supposed to have hair! that’s why God gave him so much of it. He obsessed over it. Hair everywhere! He’ll look good… Hopefully. Oh no, She’s going to call him peanut head or insult him or something. She'll be dating a peanut head. It's not bad! The first time he walked out of the bathroom without hair, he stood in the doorway, tremoring between laughter and tears and anger. He still looked good! a little off. But very good. But God, that was a huge peanut head---

She hung her head between her legs and slouched the slumpiest slouch. All her memories were falling right here, between her pajamas and on her bed. Oh my God! Her laugh filled the whole room. It cut through the darkness with a warm bright smoke. It echoed and danced off her open closet door and drummed back to her. That felt good. That laugh came from a good place in her body.

The boy she loved was slipping away. And no one had control. Not even him. A sickness. A disease. A growing wedge between him and the rest of the world. All was lonely. Just the mass in his lungs and his mind and the smallness of his body. Oh boy! What fun, he often thought. What a picture, she often thought. She was trying to comfort the inconsolable. For the next few months she would push, with full strength, towards the unobtainable. There was only loss at the end of this race, but she ran into it anyway--

Stop it. Just stop it. I can’t do this.

Can’t do what?

All this. The story telling. I feel like we are missing the point or something.

But this is what is going on. This room. This moment.

Exactly. One moment, all revolving around me. I don’t want that.

That’s kind of what you need.

No. No more crying in a room. No more beds eating me or London-in-the-fog-lamp-post scenes.

But that’s what’s happening.

But what about the story? How should I remember him?

As he was, of course.

Which way is that?

Broken. Small. Weak. A champion of all giving up.

What about before the inevitable?

Broad, sturdy, surprising, witty.

I can’t do both.

You have to. You absolutely have to.

I’ll never heal will I?

That’s too loaded of a question for me.

How? You’re my conscious. My overseer.

Yeah, but not your fortuneteller. I can only narrate.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

Narrate away.

She gripped the sheets with white knuckles

Which actually looked gray because it was dark and all that other descriptive bullshit, right?

Excuse me?

Yeah. Why try to hide the obvious? I’m a broken dam. I’ve been letting you out in slow increments and now you are threatening to burst me open. Tear me beyond rebuilding. You won’t even leave me two bricks. Ill become a giant basin, holding all the troubles I’ve been stopping. So why describe it with so much dribble and staunchness?

Because I am more articulate than you and you can’t tell a proper story.

Bullshit I can’t.

You can’t.

Yes I can.

Now, right now, how do you feel?

Pissed off.

Wrong. You’re not angry.

Shit yes I am. You can’t tell me how I feel. I’m irate! You have no control over that one, narrator lady!

Can I say something?

Yes.

You’re right. You’re pissed. You’re furious. No God, no living person, no food, no friend, no parent, no one can ever tell you how you feel. Nor could ever, ever make you feel better. You are miserable. An absolute and positive disaster. You know how I know? Because I see you. I see past what everyone else sees. And I am not saying you are a mask or a cover up. No, you are genuine. Really genuine. But everything you have stockpiled behind those ribs is threatening to split out and splinter your body. Sweetie, you’re done for. Absolutely done for. Maybe you did it to yourself. I am not quite sure. But I do know that you are missing something. In all your togetherness and all your ambition and all your quest you are dying. And for the first time ever we are seeing this monster, this lack of something, come spewing out. You’re falling, honey. I can’t shake you and wake you up to it. I can only say that you are finally there. And I could tell you how to change it; lend you exactly what you needed to fix it. But this time, I don’t think it is about adding on. It’s not about putting the icing on top of the cake. Or whatever the hell that would be. I think it is about peeling away what’s on top. He’s gone. Well, going. And if you remove whatever business or personal wellness you have on top of your heart you might be able to deal with this. Take what’s inside and blindly give it up….

….

….

….

….

She sat there in silence. Puzzled.

Huh?

What?

I’m not sure if I got a single thing you said.

Hm. You may not get it.

Then help me.

No, no. I don’t think that is a good idea. I’d rather let you go on your own.

My own?

Yes.

Like how?

Like this--------------------------------->

The annoying second conscious left the room. Walked right out the door like it were a real person. It didn’t slam the door or anything. It just kind of softly closed it. That was a more lasting impact. To slam the door would have showed impatience or anger and would have lost the point. But instead, it was a gentle walk out, leaving a lot of room for correctness---damn.

She folded her legs. Indian style. Or criss-cross-apple-sauce or whatever was politically correct now. She didn’t really care either way. It was a way to sit. And from here she thought about him. Thought of all the fairytale moments. All the kisses on the forehead. All the bald head/penis jokes. She melted away into all the warm thoughts she had of his controlled and purposeful hands. Or his incessant need to open every door for her. The road trip to visit her family that consisted of lots of car radio musical ballads. She thought on all these things and her feelings of loneliness ran away. Far far away. Nowhere to be seen. So far that the small, flea like specks that were their figures had disappeared. Almost as if they never existed. All her troubles. All her pains of seeing him skinny and frail. All images she ever had of holding his hand. All plans she had secretly made. Or at least thought in her head. All the times she thought of him when he wasn’t around. All the times she was sad that he was leaving and there was no way in hell to stop it. All the times she watched him shave his head in the mirror or she shaved it for him. All moments spent in the grocery finding the right flowers that wouldn’t make him feel like a sensitive little girl, but he would still really enjoy. All the times they went out to dinner after he was diagnosed and every time they ordered the same drink because for some stupid reason they liked the same beer. Every chance they got to kiss when he was in the hospital. All the times he won her that stuffed animal, the one at the state fair, the one he got from tossing a softball in the titled basket and he said he was made for carnival games and she laughed and was so stupidly proud of her stuffed rhino and the man who had won it for her. All those times. All the attempts to play the right song at the right time because he loved music and the mood it set and she wanted to set it for him. All the finger playing across the table. All the jokes about her giant apple cheeks and how she had an apple orchard for a smile. All the compliments he ever gave her after he was sick, because, quite frankly, he had no reason to lie at that point. He became a truth teller. So all the beautiful and hurtful things that amazing man, that incredible and passionate and loving man every said to her. Every last painful memory that she could conjure in those few moments, all tiny, puny thoughts of his pain and her pain and all the pain that had swirled, linked, chained and bonded them together, all of their shared heartache, all of it slipped down the drain of her mind…all of it. All of it. Every drop of it…...

…..

…..

….

….

Do you want my help again?

Yes. Please, yes.

She cried. Right there. In her bed. She cried.

Just finish it. Finish it the way it should be and not the way I want.

I don’t know what that should be.

Yes, you do.

I don’t. I mean it.

End with me collapsing into the pile of rubble you always saw me as.

Yeah. I should. But you’re more than that, aren’t you?

the beginnings

These are just bits i started. and might finish.

---

He thought his soul looked more like a snowball than anything. It wasnt gaseous looking. Not a jelloey substance being inside lit white. It wasnt rippling or pulsing. No no. Not his soul. It did not look like how anyone had described it ever before. His soul was crisp. Unsoiled. Perfect and circular. So why was he looking at it? This seemed so unjust to him. Why now? What did he do?
---

She often imagined she could fall asleep in God's palm. To rest her head on the pad just below His pointer finger, curl up with his thumb and let the deep gorge of the hand engluf her creating unending security. Tonight her eyes swallowed the black of the room like a drain. She ripped wrinkles into the sheets with her ringed hands, her pulse sent shockwaves through the matress and heaved her stomach. She was nervous for what was to come.

---

Father, we typically gather to pray for healing or miracles. Tonight is no different.

Thoughts on Doing Laundry

It had been 6 hours 23 minutes and roughly 14 seconds--15 seconds-16 seconds--since the laundry had been rescued from the dryer. The batch had gone cold. It was colorless. Whites dried at a low temperature and left to cool further. Michael, being neglectful, felt bad for the wrinkled v-necks and collared shirts. The underwear he had no sympathy for. They did not need to be presentable. He had no one to present them to. Not right now. The idea of pressed underwear was amusing. He began to sort, he in the chair, underwear and socks piled on the ironing board. Shirts (collared, long sleeved and all else) draped over the back of the chair waiting to be hung lightly.

Beside him sat a styrofoam container containing scrapes of refried beans, fragments of Mexican rice and two shreds of lettuce. The Taco/Burrito Palace. Michael had been seven nights in a row to the small food joint. Six of them alone. One with the father of a friend. The place reeked of foreign joy constantly. The light was always a warm, open and noticeably yellow. There was never any obnoxious music, not the cliché mariachi that often seemed to make fun of Mexican music rather than be it. No, it was always the rising and falling inflections of sports commentator excitement from the television. And when the right thing was ordered the best sound was ssizzzzzle of the grill.

Going there was Michael’s way of visiting a different country; his way of leaving. He sat among two Mexican policeman and the passing of white drunk people looking for booze food. But the only people that stayed for longer than 15 minutes were Michael and the two men in uniform. They watched soccer games together. Michael never thought much of soccer, but viewing its fast and enduring pace in this place made him excited. He made eye contact with the other two whenever there was a near miss at the goal or when the smack of two running bodies sounded. He could be a soccer player. He was always athletic. It was strange; he was not a work out junkie, just genetically blessed he guessed. Michael could always keep up with others, maybe even be faster, not stronger, but definitely just as quick. He could do it. This was the kind of thought Michael often had. He could forsake the years of schooling and job training and simply go into another field. Age was no issue. It would be a matter of money and finding a specialist to train him. Things like this didn’t seem easy, but he thought he could do them. Really do them. Be good at them. He could learn to juggle the soccer ball. He learned to correct his two left feet and danced the salsa in a Christmas Eve service at church once. Or maybe basketball. It would take time, but if every day were spent in the gym, specifying mechanics and sharpening instincts then there would be a chance to make a career out of it.

Ssi zzzzzle. Scoop. Ssizzzzzle.

The television flashed shots of screaming fans. These people were nuts. A baby dressed in a demon costume. How does that happen? Pan out to the mother wearing a devil mask and dressed in shadowy dark robes. Oh. Never mind. The players moved with electric grace and spun the white ball with ease. He wondered how the ball curved like that when they kicked it? He could do that. He could bend it like Beckham. It would take some time, but he could do it. Maybe it wasn’t being a soccer player but rather, emulating one. He could do that well. He emulated writers in high school. Wrote poetry like E. E. Cummings. This one time he emulated Gene Kelly in some play he performed in college. He could emulate confidence when he needed it, patience when the situation called for a cool head. He spent half his damn life emulating his older brother. He emulated the perfect boyfriend role for six years of his relational life, pleasing the others and never actually able to be himse-

Ssizzzzzle. Scoop. Ssizzzzzle. Scoop.

The place was always friendly. It was more of a heaven than a palace. They should rename the place. It was a safe ground for all those wanting to escape. You could come here to get away from bustling streets or bickering mates, gargantuan assholes hitting on you at bars. You could run towards well flavored chicken and authentic flour tortillas. Michael was escaping. This sharpened him, sprung everything good in him, relaxed him. Michael sat for an hour each night among Spanish television shouts and sideways glances. That’s all he did. He didn’t have to think about her--or about his feelings. He especially didn’t think about where he was going in the future or what job he needed or what apartment he was supposed to move into next. And this was his problem. So many-

Ssizzzzzle. Scoop. “Dos Quesadillas, amigo”

Not for Michael. He was a taco kind of guy if that makes any sense. Tonight’s game was Mexico versus Hungary. Are you serious? Hungary? This is a tad ridiculous. Is there really no small way to escape this, God? He didn't want to watch this game. Tonight’s order would be to go. The selection was met with a crooked eyebrow from the register Mexican twin. The cook Mexican twin mirrored his registered brother when he stuffed the order into a large paper bag with the accompaniment of Michael's two favorite salsas.

"Hasta manana, cabron," the register twin hollered at Michael as he left. He knew he was not really anyone's cabron.

Michael passed seven bars on his three block walk to the palace. The way back was always worse. There was something about colorful lights inside tinted windows and globs of gyrating bodies that promised Michael something he half wanted. He didn’t look down on or despise that life-style. He wanted to partake in the ritual of it all. The shirts and the flirting and the drinks. It just didn’t seem like one hundred percent him. He felt that was a life style that took real commitment. A dedication he was not willing to put forth. Not towards that anyway. Some of it looked really fun. Michael often wanted to be inside the bar, talking to new people and smelling sweet liquors. His mind was constantly on other things. Well, really it was one thing that lead to many things that caused reflection on a lot of other things. All these things. Subjects. He often referred to them as problems. A term that most of his friends told him to ignore. It was their way of keeping him from himself. The walk back consisted of drive-by flirting with girls in his head. Tonight a girl who took an extra long drag on her cigarette was the subject.

-Hi, girl standing outside of club that I would never really go for, but still wouldn’t mind talking to.

-Hey, boy strolling by club that wants me but would never have a chance because we just don’t really match.

-I know someone prettier than you.

-Ouch. Why would you say that?

-it’s not your fault. She’s all I can think about.

-Tell me you won’t think about me later tonight.

-I won’t think about you tonight.

-Have a good night, boy.

-You too, girl. Sorry it couldn’t work out.

-I know you have something better than me.

Tonight he abandoned the laundry and was now going back to it.

Socks. They never evoked any memory. Not really. This is how he treated laundry, like a big sack of memories that he could reach into, pull out something warm, not visited often and could be accessed for entertainment. Each handful brought out a story or a person. He began this game when he folded clothes for his mother. He made chores exciting that way. Sweeping became hockey and mowing the lawn was like painting with light and dark shades of green. Laundry was about memory and story. Socks, however, were tug-of-war fights with his childhood dog and not much more. Maybe winter. Double socks in the winter. But this was something to do. Folding, smoothing, cleaning up his life in small ways. Pairing socks was like figuring out his problems. A search for the match required work and thought. And always the answer. The beauty of chores, the solving of problems. So Michael folded. Grabbing each item, finding a memory and folding it up in his mind. The white collared shirt with a gray windowpane pattern. This was a dancing shirt! A wedding, a hardwood floor and 200 other bodies packed together, celebrating the love of two people. Strangers to most except themselves. This one had to be folded with pizzazz. So flare it would be. Michael grabbed each sleeve at the end, draped it against his body, held it close in the best slow dance position. Faces pressed closely at the cheek, hands cupping each other that feels like spooning for palms and tummies securely fastened to each other; everything resembling intimacy. And he swung that shirt in one complete circle with show and flash. The circumstance was the dance. It was about the closeness and the feel of 70 percent cotton, 30 percent silk blend. The umbrella whoosh of the unbodied cloth. And then the dip, oh the dip. What a dip! The neck line and collar simply falling open, succumbing to the music and mood and irresistible partner. Thank you for this dance, good sir. Whoosh, whoosh, slip, slip. The shirt and memory and wood floor now folded and fluffed ontop of the pile of others. Daydreams and basketball games, car rides, late night dinners and Christmases all crisply compartmentalized into squares and buttons facing up.

Blue sock. Two black socks. A match.

A white shirt with a vintage MTV logo on it. Hand-me-down. Fake big brother. Guitar lessons. Quitting guitar lessons. Love for fake big brother. Love for real brother and fake big brother being together.

Other blue sock. Whoosh. Match.

Oh my. Tie-dye shirt. Whoosh. Flip. Flip. He’ll ask for no memories from that one. Just a weird night of outdoor grilled food, bad movies and a strange attempt to fit in.

Get back here. Last black sock. Final Match.--

--And the sweater. A dark grey cardigan sweater. He wore it all the time. Over t-shirts, v-necks, collared shirts if he wanted to dress it up more. It was a comfort article. Bought with hesitance, but now kept forever on his shoulders. It was his, but he wanted to give it to her. It was one of those ridiculous couple things that he actually did buy into. He felt more like a man if she wore his shirt. He would never want to lay claim to her, he just wanted to be with-

Whoosh. Flip. Pause.

Too many things. Too many. He gave it his all, but he couldn’t shake the thought of her. It was hopeless. He knew he was hopeless. He held it half folded hoping he would only half think of his feelings for her. He hated how he thought of her. The first ceiling-glances of his morning were filled with her. A stroll downtown was with her, she’d pop in while washing a dish and eating a peanut butter and jelly stood no chance. She was in Hungary and he was just left hungry. There she was. The most beautiful monster curling up the back of his neck, stroking his mind and holding his chest. Did she know this? No. Should she? Probably not. This was not her fault. It was all his things. All his moments. Damn, this sweater. Damn this goddamn, fucking sweater. It was caught in his throat. He wanted to curse his damn throat. For seven months his throat had stopped everything from fully entering him. Or coming out. He couldn’t smell the commercial, homey smell of laundry because of his throat. He couldn’t discover things, couldn’t find the answer to his past, couldn’t cry about his own life because of that throat. There was something in the way. A block. A giant roll of socks holding up his throat, refusing to let him go. And now this sweater was weaving itself into his skin. He wouldn’t be able to shake it. The cotton could overtake his flesh and loop itself around his stomach. He wanted her to ask for it. He wanted her to say I love that sweater and the way it looks on you and I bet it would be too big for me but I would love to know that I own something of yours and I would love to look cute in that and see the look on your face when I put it on. I want that. He wanted her to say something like that. He wanted that because of all these other things caught in his throat. He wished he could throw it all up; rip out his tongue and anything that ever lied. Stupid laundry and all its stupidness and its ability to make him feel stupid things. Just come out. Please. He wanted to get rid of every moment he felt not good enough or wrong. He wanted to finally prove it. Find the one, biggest thing going on in his life, solve it and prove to the rest of the world that he was allowed to be there. He was allowed to live and exist and influence and love and drink coffee and teach and talk to others. He wanted to shred his own heart and throw it deep into the darkness. Anything that stirred down there could eat it and he would never have to see those problems. How can you love and hate yourself? He could build himself a new heart because all these things were too much for him. They were too much. He could say farewell to the overburdened, trying too hard heart that clung to a sweater and the wonderful her. He never wanted to get rid of her, just the things that surrounded her and polluted her. The things she didn’t know about. Probably shouldn’t know about. The things in his life that made him completely and utterly him. To be these things and be wanted seemed like too much. For anything.

Whoosh. Flip. Whoosh. Drip.

Damn. There it was. Part of the sleeve was a darker gray. Now two parts—three. Three splattery circles he hadn’t seen in a long time. A shiver rippled through him like walking outside at night without a shirt. It hit him right in the back of his stomach, where his spine was. Damn, that throat.

Whoosh. Flip. Folded.

It was on top of the stack and now it was staring.

So Michael stared back.

All the comfort he wanted lay beside him, fully eaten and watching soccer. And the things near him were folded. It was one night of many, again, left up too late and searching for too much. He felt so vague. He felt like the soft edges of all his cotton shirts. Rounded, barely defined, worn. They could only know their potential when dressed. Maybe he overreacted. He did that from time to time. He was getting better though. He sat staring in all his strangeness and vulnerability. The night passed three, the sweater still on top and he slept without putting away his things.

"Stay. Don't run" said the Man

this one is a tad long. 

----

The boy hadn’t made a decision. He was standing over the bed with shaking hands. The man came into the door frame quietly. He put his right hand up on the frame and spoke lightly.

“You running? Because your bags look packed from here.”

There was no response from the boy.

“It’s alright if you go. No one expects you to stay around here. Not your family and especially not your friends. We all understand actually. We may not know it perfectly, but, kid, we understand. We want you to be safe. We want you to be okay with all that has happened and all the choices you have made”

The boy was quietly kneading wrinkles into the edges of a shirt in the suitcase with his fingers,

“You’re such an optimist. And eternal optimist and lately we’ve all noticed some of the sadness. You are down on yourself more. What happened? Is it something we did?”

The man knew it was not his actions this time. He spoke and came to realizations at the same time.

“Kid, we love and support any decision you make. It seems like its been a rough year or more for you and in a way none of us are really aware of, at least it seems. And God knows we definitely miss you. But you are not the same. We used to force you to grow up. And now you have taken it upon yourself, haven’t you? You grew up so fast and took on such change at lightning speed, huh? You now actually don’t know where the time went. We are so sorry. I know it’s no comfort, but we didn’t know what we were doing and you seem like you got a much smarter head on those shoulders. Something at least clicks a little better with you. Kid, we miss you and we know you could go, but I think I want to tell you to stay. Stay for a little while longer”

The boy’s face turned up in surprise. His eyes widened with sadness and question.

“Maybe you should stay. I know its dark where you are at and I know the insecurities are much brighter here, but it might a good place to just stay. You’re tired. Your eyes tell more than your soul now. They show us dark ovals of sleepless night due to homework, worry and daydreams. There is a flicker deep, deep beneath those grey circles. You’ve done this sort of facing the hard stuff very quietly for a long time. You didn’t victimize yourself, you just pushed it. And we see it’s beginning to crack, kid. We see. And now I am here to tell you that you are stronger than you know. You’re definitely stronger than us. And it is what we put you through that made you this way. Your pain gave you that tenacity, that edge that we loved and feared in you. And kid, we thank you for never giving up on us. We probably should have been screamed at and slapped around and we sure as hell would have deserved it. And kid, we thank you for staying there.

And this is the benefit of staying. It will get you closer to that man you want to become. I think you will get there if you stay. I’ve heard your dream of a man with patience and smart and genuine and a little goofy and loving and found success without compromising his compassion for others. A man of extreme influence and tells stories the right way. That man, I tell you, kid, that man is coming. But you cannot run away to him. He is being shaped here. We see it. I don’t know if you can, but we can. And right now before you is the choice to keep creating this man. Do not wait, kid. Do not choose next week or tomorrow to get better. You have to lay down the foundation for what you will become now.

I know you want to run, but stay please. Let your heart get broken one more time. Find the joy in your darkness without giving into it. Search around here and tire yourself out one last time. At least for a bit. You’ll be back up at the fight soon. But right now, stay, kid. Stay here and feel it all”

Finally the boy cried. He wasn’t sure why entirely, but he didn’t need the explanation. Not this time. He was growing up and going through it. He smiled and with jolted laughter he shook off some of the tears. He was an optimist and kept his heart bright even through all the uncontrollables and unknowns.

The Man wasn’t sure what to do now, so he left as quietly as he entered.    

 

"You mean the slightest bit" she said

he was looking down and she was looking down on him

"There is always something smaller and always something bigger. It's nature. It's the way things are. And you need to learn this quickly. My boy, you are fighting a battle you will not win. And you must find the comfort in losing. Fast. That heart of yours might have to close back up for awhile. You thought it was safe, but I'm telling you, you didn't matter. I am sorry to be the one to break it to you and it is probably ironic that i am, but i am. You, my boy, are nothing at this point. Maybe sometime later, when you grow up, you will be, but now, right now, in this moment, you are not. You do not mean as much you think or want. Maybe in three months, or a year or five years you can finally pass over that hump, but until then, my boy, you are nothing. You mean the slightest. The littlest bit. But definitely not enough to stop someone in their tracks. Maybe not even enough to make them hesitate. And deep down inside you know that i am saying this out of love for you. And i mean it. You simply want that meaning. Boy, you do not matter that much. They will make fun of small things you say. Things you thought were jokes shared privately or in companionship. They will not care or budge at your feelings. They will talk about you with little feeling. But my boy, that is the way it is. And here is your strength. You keep going. You willingly, because it is your choice and you know it, you willingly present yourself everyday and offer what you have and make your small request and, you, knowingly, will get shut down. You do this. You keep doing this. You already know the hurt of it. You already know the fear of it. They don't. They don't see your side. And they won't. They will not change it seems. Maybe in the future, maybe three months, a year or five years from now they will. But remember, right now, in this moment, they do not see you and you do not matter, but you must, in this moment, now, keep going. I trust you. And I see that great strength in you. You smile genuinely and I am proud of you for that. But keep going. My boy, do you understand?"

he did. he confirmed his understanding by shaking his head yes. He also acknowledged his shaken state by not making eye contact. He thanked her. She paid for breakfast because she said that was her job and felt like she hadn't been taking care of him lately. Then She left.  

rock and stroll

"You said that you believed in me
And would burn for your beliefs
I watched you burn
Burn for me"

-rainer maria

----

i like the way we walk next to each other

of the hundred things, i choose this one. 

whether i'm goose bumped from a too-damn-cold may

or may(be) we are barely swiping backs of hands as our arms swing

either way, on any day, when our feet are talking the rest of me bounces a little more

and almost always we saunter to different rhythms and strides

but it causes little strife

so i find myself walking turned to the side with you

like story telling to children by children

we stop to act things out 

or for you to practice your balance beam act on flower bed curbs

its where we talk the most 

its where i let go the most

its where we discover the most, i think. 

and its where i see you the most

backlit by a sun setting and the night air turning your skin darker blue

stepping next to you is simple. 

its a skipping waltzing

or fumbling for thoughts like a kid thumbing through his pockets for little toys

every time we touch the littlest

its simple

its something

its walking

----

"I could have set you free
But I watched you burn

I could have set you free"

  

"I won't" He said.

I was lucky/unfortunate enough to hear part of this conversation in starbucks when I went to get my usual, always-burnt, grande drip coffee. She clearly was not understanding this poor fellow. I extrapolated for the middle, but I caught the first and last, and some random words in the middle. I can't believe i wrote about these poor people. I'm such a creep.

------

“You have no idea why I exaggerate!” he said with a smolder. He was on a small breaking point. But maybe it was too early to break. It probably was.

“It was, like, two weeks! Calm down.” she punched back specifically.

Too late, it was too early for this, but it was breaking quickly. “You liked me! you never goddamn said it, but you sure as hell acted like you did. For a year you acted like it! So I went off of that. Can you blame me? And now, now, you want to know what I’m thinking now?”

She didn’t. Her eyes were big. (this is where I began to order. So here we go!)

“Well, your goddamn ignorance lies in how goddamn selfish you are. And the worst part is, I know you aren’t! I know you aren’t. I hear how you talk to your dad. Or your friends. You’re there for them. And it is everything that I admire about you that I can’t goddamn stand. Your raging ambition presses you towards independence. And what your intelligence seems to miss is that you can have someone that simply listens and goddamn cares. You either can’t comprehend or just refuse to see that maybe, maybe I can be there for you with no responsibility or obligation. Its not so goddamn hard to tell someone how you are doing. To just open that goddamn heart that I have been waiting so long for. I’m asking you do it simply. Not complicated. Not vomiting. Not committing. But for a few minutes think that maybe I do fit into your plan. I can support it. I can even make it better. Imagine that? Making it better. You can go off and do what ever and you can just goddamn be there with me. I’ve got my own stuff, but I think about you. And...I just...I think this is where we differ. I feel like you have something so inhumanly incapable of committing to me because of your preconceived notions. I won’t stay. I won’t. I’m good. And you’ll miss me. You’ll miss me because I was patient and I actually did care. I held you in a way that had purpose and meaning and I let you know how much I cared through a hug. A simple goddamn hug. I was always careful and held you as something precious. Even though you didn't and still don't think you deserve it. But I did. It was unexplainable, but I did and do care for you. It was only your own goddamn shame that kept you from seeing it. I am all these things that you admired but couldn't find the goddamn courage to get past your stupid feelings and say it! You couldn’t”

There was a pause. (I walked by to leave. At a slow pace. And I got the last line)

“I won’t stay. Because I’ve tried, like you asked me to, and it still didn’t work, which is your fault. I want to stay, but you aren’t letting me.”

(I walked out)

The bell on the door jingled. It shook her from her confounded thoughts. She felt empty. She had underestimated him.

He kept sitting there. And I wasn't sure why. Maybe he lied. Or maybe he needed to say it and threaten her. I'm not sure. I walked out.