I've become acutely aware of the gravity in the fact that all I said to her was that I don't want to be the one who starts all of our conversations anymore
And that since then we have had no conversations.  
I don't think I will be rid of the haunting that this is my fault until I am haunted with the fact that it may be hers
In so making her not the woman I wanted for
Nor the woman I was all too eager to give myself for
Thirdly making me that man who opened his rib cage exposing his heart for her taking
Only to collect dust, rain drops, and those twisty helicopter things that fall from trees in the autumn
All from being left open so long on a very windy day when she saw what my heart was stretching to offer her and chose to leave it there
Couldn't I once be the one worth taking
Or at least notice when she's not the one worth opening up for.

There are days I wish God hadn’t built me with a zipper for a sternum
You know I don’t always mean to show them everything
It’s just sometimes I forget to zip it back up after I take it on walks to the liquor cabinet
My heart is a bow-tie drinking Manhattans at the center table with a chair full of friends and a twinkle in his eye
My tongue is a rolled up cuff drinking whatever’s on special at the end of the bar confusing, “I’ll have another” with proper conversation
My mind has an unplugged mini fridge in the corner with two luke-warm ciders waiting for a chance to celebrate...remembering to brush my teeth
Depression is a funny sort that way, it’s all her fault, right up until you remember how hard it is to brush your teeth everyday
At which point it’s either your own fault, or we’ll try again tomorrow.

Knowing is not half the battle when the battle is not being waged in your head
Knowing it is all going wrong is just another reason to never put on the helmet and see what the battle may bring
Seeing what right looks like on Pintrest is not motivation to check my zippers
It is the battle cry my stomach gives my lungs after lunch
It is the battle cry the fists of my mind give my heart when we are alone
It is a crop duster driven by the Morton’s Salt Girl, who never misses the open wounds of my torn innards strewn about an open field after losing the battle for the day.
I am a slug on your porch and I shrink with every grain
And you will never hear me scream
It’s just so tiring to tell someone you hurt and have no blood to prove it.

I do not much dream for stars or skinny girls anymore
I am afraid of what their sharp edges will do to my fingertips
I’m just looking for something I can hold on to
Someone who will remind me that I have a place here
If that place is only to take up oxygen
Sometimes I let my dreams get away from themselves and I dream of great magical things:
Like being loved back
Feeling important
Sleeping peacefully

On occasions I even see myself at work opening a love note in my lunchbox from someone who felt compelled to take the time to tell me they love me
It always swells my heart
Makes me want to be a better person
To get out of bed
Run a marathon
Sing an opera
Lift a weight
Sky dive
Read a book
High five a stranger
Take a dancing class
But then I wake up and look across my room at just how far away the light switch is and decide I must be afraid of the dark
Since I never remember to turn off the light before lying down and I never have the strength to get back up

I dream most of all of having someone to tell me the things I need to hear
To give me a purpose
A vision
A reason to live
To stop letting me find better excuses
To yell in my ear or write me a note that says,
“You are worth it, every minute, every cent, every effort.  You are worth it, because you will become a great man and because I love you, and because you are destined to change my world, and because your son needs you, and because you are brilliant, and because the world needs your words, because I need your words”

But the only notes I get are the ones I put into my own lunchbox as a reminder come noon-time
That even if for no other reason than because I said so,
I am worth it