She stands before a mirror,
swaying gently to the sounds
of anguish in the room above.

She sits in the café.
She's nursing the same drink
she always orders.
Just trying to drag out the time.
Because today could be the day.
Today you may look over and see
her. You may recognize her from
the hallways. From the mail
boxes. From the laundry room.
You may see her. Really see her.
If only for a minute.

She reads to herself. Holding
her place with her thumb.
Withstanding the interruptions.
It's you and that woman again.
That woman hates you.
She can feel it. You can't.
How easy would it be to
come downstairs. There would
be a friend, a lover, a soul mate
waiting for you. All you have to
do is move. All you have to do
is notice.

She is alone. She is always alone.
It's such a big city. There are so
many people. She is so afraid to
talk to them. To show the world
who she is. They tell her it'll change.
That the pills will help.
That all she needs to do is make one
friend and the others will just happen.
But it doesn't.
They don't.
They won't.

She sways gently to the noise.
She loves the way she looks
when she dances.
It's the only time she can look
at herself in the mirror.
She wishes you could see her.
She wishes you would see her.
But you won't.
You never will.

The gears have spun their
final rotation.
The beat of this place has
finally died down.
Now we dance.
There is a song that
shoots from our core.
A rhythm that we spend
our entire lives denying.

Step charts discarded, we
pave the world beneath our
unsure foot falls.
I swear to god that I lived once.
Now, if only for these moments,
these short and wonderful
seconds, I will push my face
through the obstinate surface
of this dying rock and
I will live again!

It is blue and here I am in
the middle of it.
Bleed your hues into me.
Free this romantic from the
tired bones of this warrior's flesh.
Pace before me, let the hunger
wash over you, let it come.
Rip from me the beating essence
of this song.

I will be yours forever in this
moment, if only you will
follow me. If only you will close
your eyes and put your hand in mine.
I can take you to the streets in
my head. To the heaving city
alive behind these green eyes.

Give me the chance. Forgive me
the past, the indecision, the
false steps, the wayward consequences
of my misspent life.
I will burn the world down,
leaving tinders in my wake,
blaze your name across the face
of our worthless world.

Dance with me.

“How about a pick-me-up?”
The strap of your bra was peeking
through the slight fabric of your
thin shirt. Inviting me to get
lost in the pale shoulder it clung to.
There were lots of places around
that would sell us energy drinks
and cigarettes at three in the morning,
but I acted as though I couldn't
remember where they were.

“We'll just drive until we see one.”
But I didn't want to drive. I wanted
to hold your hand forever.
To have your small, delicate hands
wrapped up in my oafish and
calloused fingers. I wanted
to feel your soft, I needed to know
that it was there. I wanted to sit
awhile in the smell of you
and pretend that this night meant
as much to you as it did to me.

“We could walk, if you're worried about gas.”
I don't believe in fate, I don't
think anything is predetermined to be
any one particular way. But just for
that one minute I wanted to believe
that you were being pushed by
invisible strings toward me. That
in your earthly home I could find a
place where I finally belonged.
I held your hand as we crossed streets.

“I'll protect you.”
I joked, I lied, and I hoped.
I would protect you forever, from
anything if you would let me.
I would cradle you close, like a
precious gem or a hurt animal,
I would breath my stale life into
your form until we were both
alive and fresh for the first time.
Let me be that man. Let me be the
man you want but don't need.
I would do anything for that.

“I had a lot of fun tonight. Thank you.”

I can feel the raw power of it
charging through my blood.
I've seen his face too often.
I know what he's here for.
It moves through me like a
cannon ball, a wave that forces
bile into my mouth.

I've tried worming my way
through the covers.
Getting lost in the many folds
and patterns, my god the patterns
I can see, but he's still there.
He'll be there tomorrow too.

I feel for the cold comfort
of the base ball bat beside my bed.
Aluminum. Red. The wrapping
slightly worn.
I once unwound a baseball.
I removed it from it's skin.
Followed every little thread until
it's cork heart lay bare before me.
I remember the lesson well.
Be slow. Methodical. Don't quit.

I know your eyes are on me.
I can feel it burn my skin.
I hate you, you *******.
Do you know how much I hate you.
I had a dream about killing you.
I woke up with a smile.
I used to be so nice.

My grip tightens on the bat.
I hear you put away the last
of your bottle. I know there
are more to come.
Do you have the ambition to
come over here?
Can you muster the strength to
pull me from this bastion,
kicking and screaming and swearing?
Do you have it in you to hit me
tonight?

I hope not.
Coward. Weak. Sick.
Stupid. Afraid. Small.
Alone. Unloved. Freak.
Loser. Wimp.

Do it. Just do it you
******* monster.
But this time do it right.
Finish the job. I'm tired
of this borrowed time you've
given me. I want an end in sight.

I hear a soft yawn.
Keys jangle. The wind chime
sound of your walking.
The door closes.
Not tonight. Not tonight.
I can still hear your keys.
They are forever a reminder.
Don't think you're safe.
No one is safe.

I drew a picture on my wall.
It was a pattern. Lines weaving in
and out, in and out. Always.
The lines never end.
They connect to each other.
They form a strange circle.
People ask what it means.
I tell them it means patience.
Always patience.
And sometimes, not always
but sometimes, when I look at it,
staring me down with it's
impressive infinity from it's
corner of the room I can
hear keys and wind chimes
and I remember the baseball
I destroyed.

I'm twenty-four. By all accounts
I am a man. But every night I
check for the baseball bat by my
bed. I wake to sounds like a
door **** turning and
I hate you still.
You *******.
I used to be so ******* nice.

There are moments in life.
Small moments, little lies,
things on the edge of memory.
Things that while to an outside
observer may seem totally
                    Innocuous,
are the very foundations
on which life is built.

I keep your jacket around.
I tell myself that I can smell
you on it.
I tell myself comforting lies.
I've had the jacket too long.
You've been released from it.
Your scent is extinct.
How will anyone ever know
what you were? Your smell is gone.

I found the note you left.
You remember that book you
let me borrow. I am ever out
of things to read.
I found the note. I read it twice.
Twice more than I read the book,
so far anyway. I would love to see
the world with you. To show you the world I see.

There are no photographs of you
yelling and waving. Of the pride
when I crossed that stage.
There are only my memories of it.
I wanted to share you with
the world. I wanted them to see how amazing
you were. At one time there were six generations. Now there are none.

I remember your temple throbbing,
that solitary patch of hair on your head.
Remember when I filled that desk
with dissection worms?
I made you old while you were still young.
I've been long gone from that
place and that time. I remember you still.
Black board justice. I don't even know if you're still alive.

There are moments in life.
Small and stupid. You're a
Part of them.
A part of me.

There is a meaning to life.
I know that there is.
I also know that it isn't
just one thing for all people.
How could it be?
Are we not told, a million
times and in a million different
ways, that we are all unique?
Are we not snow flakes, to use
the vernacular.

There is a meaning to life.
I know this more now than
ever before.
I don't know my own.
I'm afraid to, I'm young yet.
There is so much meaning to
be squeezed from this
humble man.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
Always changing.

There is a meaning to life.
I know that it can be hard to
see.
So ****** hard to see.
It is not blinding, it is not
far off.
It is based on drive,
on ambition,
on joy,
on pain,
on you.

There is a meaning to life.
It is made.
Never found.
Stop searching, put down
the maps and the books.
Cast off the chains and the
labels.
Make it.

Someday I will be a parent.
It isn't that I wouldn't like
to avoid it. I would.
Loving something so completely
is a scary prospect.

My mother, regardless of how
we feel when we flew the
nest, built a world for me.
She never cried when they
stole our money.
When the insurance wouldn't
cover her surgery.
When the world got so
hard to live in, that there didn't
seem to be a point.

She wept when the teacher
told her I had talent.
She held me close to her,
rocking gently and smiled
as the tears rolled down her lips.
You were always worth fighting
for, my little one. My little
boy blue.

I saw her spend what little money
she had, from waiting tables,
from nursing, from a million
jobs she worked.
She spent it, not on the shoes
that her co-workers said she
had to buy, because her ankles
looked so sore, her knees
felt so weak.
She bought me sketchbooks.
Hundreds of sketchbooks.
Never a regret. She smiled.
She was proud of my talents.

How can you love someone
so deeply?
How do you watch as your
own idea of who you
are is ripped away?
I don't know that I have
that kind of courage.

I will be a parent, perhaps not
young like my parents were, but
a parent nonetheless.
It is inevitable. I know this.
I hope, regardless of how
I felt when I flew the nest,
that I can be the kind of
parent that never cries, except
to acknowledge how important
his child is.

I want her to know, when
my own child comes to visit,
that it has talent. That I
support it.
I want her to know that
I'm proud of her.