For months, I couldn't write. The words never came out. I felt liberated and silenced all at once. I no longer had a voice; I just had a mind. Over those months, I came to the conclusion that people stop writing for one of two reasons: they are either really happy or broken beyond repair. Being cracked, allows us to slip our words through the holes inside of us. When we are whole, they can't find a way out; they give up and stay inside of us. But when we are broken in ways never thought imaginable, our words flood out like water through an open dam. There are too many words and not enough power to control them. Words come when they are ready. Writers aren't made; they are born. They write when they crack, and they blossom when they hurt.
A jaded take. A busted rake. A winter wind from the brutal north. I'm sleepy to the bone. I take myself to the store to buy my specific brand of almond milk. Seagulls huddle on the tar, trying to soak sunshine warmth. I get my milk-like products and go Starbucks. Every optimistic minion is getting in my way. City planners ensure congestion. There's a homeless guy dozing off on a bench near the Starbucks bathroom. He has a coffee, so he's legit. I ask him if he's sleeping rough. He says he is. I ask him his name. I can't tell what he says. His teeth sabotage articulation. I ask him if he has plans for Thanksgiving. He says not now. I give him $12 and leave with my coffee-products. I get home and tell my wife all about him. We talk about how scary it is to approach homeless people and dream together about having homeless folks over for Thanksgiving. Then she says she loves me.
A familiar face a familiar name a familiar feeling, I couldn't let your hand slip this time so I bound our hands with the string of my heart so that if you let go I wouldn't have to suffer. I ran ahead of you, our hands still entwined dragging you down the path I had walked so many times before, but with you it was different, you tilted up my chin to raise my eyes from the concrete slabs beneath my shoes and up into the clusters of pink cotton candy above us. I looked at you and whispered my secrets, the things I thought would stay locked within me weighing me down, you had the key to everything I had thought everything I had done and every part of me. It was as if my cloak of invisibility had been torn away leaving me exposed for you and only you. As we walked down the path, we came across a line of red red roses and although we were told that's the way roses should be and that that's the way the world is, with you what should be no longer mattered so we painted the roses purple and ran where most wouldn't dare crawl. I wrapped my every thought, every second, every part around your being and you became my purpose, you became my life. That was the moment I told you I loved you not because I felt I should but because that's what it was. The hands emerged from the dark and toyed with my actions, I was like a puppet, a minion to that which ruled me: fear. It flooded my veins and so I took back my hand, but my hand was bound by the strings of my heart so cuts and bruises began to appear littering my body, my mind and my soul but what I did not realize was that your hand was also bound, I had hurt you, the one who had become not just a part of my life but essential to my very existence, I had damaged the bond and as I looked upon those purple roses I knew I would spend all of myself to fix the bond, stand up again with you by my side and walk till there is no more land to walk upon
Round and round racing against eachother, fighting for the attention, the music gets louder as they go round the caresole, I am overwhelmed by fatigue but I cannot get off, the thoughts won't stop racing infecting my mind changing who I am, I have to choose but the choice is no longer mine, I can't stop what I have started, I won't stop it
On nights like these, I can almost feel those moments replayed. In my car, I speed down winding back roads, music blaring, trying to block out what used to be. Sadly though, the music isn't loud enough to drown out those dirty parts that make up the mess that is called me. That grief-stricken teen, the one who would have done anything to survive. Those are the things I can never quite forget. As the music gets louder and the roads get curvier, I sink back into who I used to be. But just for a moment. Suddenly, thoughts of those moments where I gave everything away seem to come flooding back in, leaving no room for breathe. That moment where I was trapped underneath him, terrified that screaming would make things worse. Then the moment where I trusted him to take those very large parts of me. Another moment where I thought I couldn't live and almost gave up. All of the moments where people told me I was crazy. The moments I lied and covered up the cuts. The moment where I got called into the office..because people were "concerned." The moment where I wished it would all just end. Then the moment where I took him back, then ran to the next "him." The countless moments I gave myself away, searching for the pieces that the first "him" stole. Every moment that almost broke me, and yet I am still here. Those moments together are who I am today. Though I am proud today, I am ashamed of who I used to be.