Torn between growing up and
making mistakes. Unable to
think and unable to breath.
Words pour from my hand
from the people in my mind
from the children, men, women,
animals in my mind. The
dead, the dark, the shame, the
angst. Pours from my hand
to this page and I’m waiting
waiting for it to get good. Waiting
for these words to make
sense and form something
worth reading. But for now,
I just poor. I’ll paint you
a picture. A man who’s
himself, true, and good.
Stunned by a fire, married,
and settled. A life not planned

A life turned left.
Has a son, a daughter,
and 2 more sons. Did he
know that girl would be
me? Did he know that I’d
grow up inside my mind?
Did he know that I’d flirt
with death at age 19. Did he
know that I’d stare at the
bottle, the knife, the street?
Did he know that I’d pick them up.
Maybe not. But I think he
did know that whatever I did,
I’d always put them back down.
I flirt now, I stare now, I
have picked up a knife now, I have
stepped into the street and no one
has stopped me. That girl is too
weak. I am too weak.

I’ve grown up in my mind. Reserved
friendly at school and at rage
on the page. Unrecognizable on
the page. Is that what I wanted?
Is that what I planned?
Heels scatter past me staring at
my hand and eyes as they
fly across this book. I get a
horrible pleasure that they know
not of my pain.
The things I write a but ordinary
to me. The pain I feel is no
different from theirs. Probably.
But why then do I think about
death so often? Does everyone?
Might I be crazy? I want more
than anything to write about love.
When I used to write about love.

It was sweet and lovely
like a lake or a river.
Something I could just wade
into without anything holding
me back. I look upon my love
letters and see my pure
happiness. I realize that is what
I want. I want to sit at
the bank of the river. I want
to stare at that river.
I want to pick up the smooth
Stones under the surface
and only see sunlight.
No headlights, no pierced
knives, no bottles of lies.
Death is a lie. I want that
river to be my only truth.
And maybe when I look around I’ll
see you.

You who brought be to the
river of truth and let me see
your deepest desires. We both
pulled away. We both left
that river and the next time
I went back, you were no longer
alive. You were lost to the
street and I don’t know why.
But I think you meant for me to
live by that river and all that
you told me there.
I think I was meant to be there.
Not here. Not here, sitting,
writing about death and
weapons. We’re meant for something
more, both of us. If I ever make
it there, just know you will too.
And I’ll finally be there, and
be there with you.