Why am I trying
to fix the trust you broke

I searched
“How to repair
A relationship when trust is broken.”
And all of the websites were from the perspective
of the person who committed the offense,
Not the one who got hurt.
“Apologize profusely, admit what you did, ask for forgiveness, tell them how you’ll change” —

None of this advice was for me.
That’s when I realized that I shouldn’t
Be the one who is looking this up.
This isn’t my offense to pay penance for
No one on the internet told me
It was my job to fix this.
In fact, they all had quite the opposite approach

Then I googled
“How to make a plan to fix a broken relationship”
Same idea, different words
(Because you can’t trust the algorithm, or can you?)
Because I wanted a step-by-step—
A sequential process that I could analyze,
proofread, and formulate perfectly so that everything is pieced back together. and then I’d propose the plan to you and cross my fingers that you agree to it

And yeah, I absolutely should be the one to make the new rules
But as far as fixing what was lost, that has to be on you.
Because you were the one who broke this
You told me blatant lies, often
When I asked if I could trust you.
You make excuses, like
I should be proud that you weren’t worse

I’m not proud
I’m embarrassed
Of you
For myself
For the happiness I thought we were beginning
to bask in

And I’m the one who tries to fix it:
The happiness
Myself
And you
Because I want it back

But I didn’t want it like this.

I am from libraries,

from shiny hardcovers and worn paperbacks.

I am from the neighbor’s squeaky swingset,

Green seats, rusted chains,

The setting of a thousand shared stories and kingdoms.

I am from the cottonwoods,

The soft seeds soaring in the Kansas wind to tickle our noses.

I’m from mega-churches and minivans,

From Celinda’s small town and David’s many neighborhoods.

I’m from private-school indoctrination that kept me “in”

And a hidden identity that kept me “out,”

From bubble-wrapped protective prejudice and a distrust of progress and change.

I’m from the grief of spiritual deconstruction

And the joy of rebirth and new knowing.

I’m from suburban Wichita and lush Ohio valleys and downtown Oklahoma City,

From spicy, hearty chili and soft, sweet cinnamon rolls.

I am from the love and relief in my husband’s embrace,

From the choice to be who I needed when I was younger.

I am the new generation in my family — the safe space in the organized chaos.

I am from the hurt of conformity and the honesty of rebellion.

I flip through the leaves of my literature,

I listen to the leaves of the cottonwoods,

And I reflect and I learn and I accept

That where I’m from is nowhere near as lovely as where I’ll go to next.

as is the sea marvelous
from god’s
hands which sent her forth
to sleep upon the world

and the earth withers
the moon crumbles
one by one
stars flutter into dust

but the sea
does not change
and she goes forth out of hands and
she returns into hands

and is with sleep….

love,
    the breaking

of your
        soul
        upon
my lips

Cresting over the skin with a razor, a young woman learns the ins and outs of the society she is in, the blood and tears it takes to be seen, and for someone to love her back, all the while, a Swiss boy, age eight or nine, steals their mother’s makeup and paints on a smile, knowing just how, on the inside, the norms are becoming ever more fragile.

As our city breathes its crowded air, a little boy tries to stifle a heaving sob so that his *****-furious father won’t hear his lack of 11-year-old testosterone and teach him another hard lesson about being a man; six miles northeast of the boy, an undergraduate studying to be a teacher breathes deeply with self-satisfaction because eight months ago to the day he made the decision to stop inhaling and exhaling the skunk-smelling substance that dulled his own mind and hurt his chances of sharpening minds younger than his.

The two of them don’t know yet, but each stifled or satisfied breath brings them closer together, and they’ve needed each other for months—after the young man earns a diploma and the young boy earns his first locker: both will teach each other to feel proud; both will motivate each other to grow stronger; both will, unknowingly, lead each other to a resolute vitality without fear or shame or guilt because

both
will
breathe

and feel whole
and feel empowered
and feel strong  
and feel ready

to breathe wonderfully deep again and again and again.

Morning after morning, the wrinkled man rises with the sun, pours a cup of coffee, sitting—listening for the train to roar by, the same track a much younger man, is cramming his brain full of numbers by, to get where he wants to go, an engineer, who was fascinated by trains at an early age.

As the city continues to grow crowded, and concrete confines the mind, the birds up north begin their epic journey, breaking free, leaving their homes behind, from high above the year’s first snow, the birds must think, I bet humans wish they could fly away from it all.