If I bleed out my truth
before I breathe out my life,
then I will have not one regret
to carry with me when I go.

Life is all about timing.
We are bombarded with epic adventures
and tales of romance
and gracious words
that are supposed to inspire,
but sometimes
all you need is to close your eyes
and listen to the white noise of life.

Soak it in.
Squeeze every muscle in your body
as though the daily knives that cut your soul
are resting their blades on your skin.
Feel the blood begin to boil
from the spark in your chest
that quickly catches fire.
Then listen to the world around you
and know that you are immensely irreplaceable.
Let go of each knife you hold,
release each joint,
and focus only on the wind
that dances through your fingers.
Feel it lift your chin to the sky
as it makes your arm into wings,
your fingers into feathers.

Open your eyes now, dear.
You are free.
Every breath you take
is either a drop in the ocean
or a splash in a puddle.
There's a difference
between living and being alive.

So imagine the possibilities,
and be them.

There are days
when I can still feel the agonizing ache
in its accelerated beats
as your image reveals itself
behind my lids,
when I think the threads
of those stitches I sewed
four years ago
(has it really been that long?)
haven't yet dissolved
and are keeping me closed,
and when I can feel your breath
against my cheek
and eventually my rhythm
keeping time with yours.
But these words are not
unfamiliar to the pages that I bleed onto
every time I briefly feel broken again.
So, this is a letter to the last person
who broke my heart:
Not you,
but myself.

To this day
I don't recognize the eyes that stare back at me
every morning when I rise to soft beams of light
that creep their way through the holes in my blinds
as I make my way down the hall
to look into the reflection in the bathroom mirror.
You see,
sometimes
when someone tears you apart repeatedly,
you just start to view them differently.
There are times
when all I want to do
is reach into that image
and clasp my hands so tightly around her throat
until her skin grows blue
but her fight grows red,
and if she would listen to me,
I would tell her to quit sprinting
from anything that makes her feel,
Because every time I hear her feet press the ground,
every time her leg muscles bulge in flight,
I can also hear a glass heart shattering
against her thoracic cavity,
but I still feel nothing.

Let me raise a glass to finding the solution.
Take a sip.
Swirl it in your mouth.
Feel its bitter taste against your tongue
until you unlock the door
to the invisible brick wall
in front of you.
Let someone else break your heart for a change.

There’s a post-it on my mirror that reads,
“You are enough.”
I still remember the day I placed it there,
long after the initial dust settled
from the gunfire I started beneath my own skin
like the itch of an insect trying to gnaw its way in,
and I blamed the bullets on the loader of the gun,
but someone had to pull the trigger.
So much time has passed now
that I forget it sticks there,
funny how a reminder can become
so commonplace,
how I can look in that mirror every day
and never once notice the three words
that used to empower me.

But today I did.

Life is just a balancing act
of continuous changes and steadfast invariability,
but my own scale has always favored
one side more than the other
and never the side I desire.
Sometimes I don’t recognize that reflection anymore
but in best way imaginable.
The fingers that pressed the note to glass
were weak, overly trusting, and dependent,
but the eyes that watch its message today
have witnessed its every honest actuality.
I am enough.

I.
am.
enough.

But maybe now
it’s become too true.

When gathered around a television
among close friends and random strangers,
dressed to the nines with champagne in hand,
the clock strikes midnight,
and the silver ball drops,
person after person locks lips with their love,
so I choose my victim wisely
and have not one regret.*

I left my lips on my champagne glass.

I laugh
when my truth
is twisted
to lunacy,
because
what else
is left
to do?