I’m a quarter of a century old...here’s my story to you all:

I’m a father of 2 children, truly intense couple years, as I became not just their "papa" but also a chemical engineer.

I have learned 4 languages thus far and have worked at a nuclear plant.

I’ve learned NEVER to judge anyone and then dare to give advice…for circumstances are unknown anyhow, so ALWAYS think before it twice.

I’ve been married, I’ve been divorced, I’ve fought cancer and I won.

I’ve been shown what real friends act like, that sometimes “family” ain’t your blood.

I’ve experienced the truest love and the deepest heartbreak both, I’ve made bad and good decisions…no regrets in any of those.

I’m 25 years old and have seemingly lived through a lifetime, but though the road is still long, I am confident right now.

Because for all those problems ahead, now there’s these lessons I’ve learned, where there’s value in none more than finally knowing what is hope.

i take my clothes off. stare at my pale, limp body mocking me in the toothpaste stained mirror. 'your'e okay' 'you're okay' 'you're okay'. my pallid hands turn the shower *** all the way to the left, step back, trace all of the freckles on my body, all four or five of them. i pretend they're melting off like ice-pops. i bring my sticky fingertips to my thighs and i feel the goosebumps rise. i try to smile back at the solemn face staring back at me in the mirror but it feels awkward and achy so i retreat back to a straight mouthed frown that almost screams with bitterness. i have laugh lines that won't ever fade and i don't know whether to revel in this or feel sick because my own body is mocking me.

the steam of the mirror fades my face away and i feel myself dripping. when i was younger, i used to write my crushes names in the fog, but today i wince at the thought of your name surrounding me. i put a towel over my pale body to try to shake you off.

this is the way i die

slowly, shivering, *****.

God's hands will reach down to me, hold me in his arms and rock me gently. i hope i feel something.

i lift my heavy feet into the shower. take a deep breath. i think of drowning every time i catch sight of any sort of water. whenever i see fire, i think of the agony of my charring body shriveling up. death is killing me. when i was younger, my parents told me to be careful of getting my toes stuck in the drain because if so, the firemen will have to  come cut my foot off and see me naked. i shake my head, thinking of the days when grown men seeing me naked was second to getting my foot cut off. i stay clear of the drain anyways. old habits die hard.

i stand under the burning water for too long. my skin begins to redden like a scab that hasn't fully healed yet. i lather enough soap for a month on my body. i scrub deep. i want you to stop finding your way into my wounds and calling the place where skin meets bone, home. i stare at the water draining and remember when home was nothing less then four walls and hugs goodnight. thinking of you spinning down the drain screeching apologies but the voices in my head are much too loud these days.

for a split second, i want you to feel the fear i feel on a daily basis. i want you to stand clear of drains, i want you to feel like a jittery mess before stepping into the shower when you see the water. but i stop. my compassion consumes me once again. i think of you belly laughing in a field of flowers with the love of your life. my mind wanders to your groggy mouth yawning as you wake up.

i step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel, let my hair down and i drop to the floor. i don't want to think of you anymore. my body feels weak. loving you has been taxing, grueling, tiresome, painful...loving you has been wonderful.

i get up. get dressed.
this is the way i let you go.

Little Fly
Thy summers play,
My thoughtless hand
Has brush’d away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink & sing;
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength & breath;
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

I am but willing prey to the wiles of the full grown moon.
She guards the night sky...
While I patrol these grounds...
Grieving over the seconds that have gone too soon.

I am a vessel... all emptied and barren.
what once was full,
now echoes faint
the glories of yesteryears.
Afloat still, adrift upon the currents... aimless and sullen.

I am a ghost... haunting no one but my own.
Immortalised...
Anchored...
to a body of mist and haze...
Occupying this space where worthy wind had once blown...

I am a beggar offering nothing but my open palms.
Hope etched tight
into my knackered knuckles
and calloused digits.
Please... take them in yours...
soothe them...
grant me your touch, your coveted balm.