Have you ever longed for a breath of life so much  it bites through your skin?
Ever looked into someone else's eyes and seen the recognition of your struggle?
I've searched long and hard for a friendly face and eyes that listen to exactly how my face contorts when I say: "please don't go"

I can never express the embarrassing guilt for my need for someone to listen.
It shames me beyond all recognition.
My self image finds itself helplessly trampled by self doubt and indecision,
drowning unconscious face down in a ***** puddle on the corner of an oily intersection in my mind.
Reserved for the worst in me. Sometimes that puddle is a warm comfortable pool of hate saved for the last drop of hope I have left.

I will cover myself in a thick skin of ice.
cold, brittle and uncaring.
Where I might hide unscathed by the churning waves of our battle for emotional high ground.
I would freeze myself looking forward, with the last look of determination I can muster.
Instead of staying free flowing, unshackled and unprotected: free to look back for you and see if you've followed my lead.
But I'm too afraid to see you turn your back on me and smile for someone else.
I'd rather cage myself in an angry form looking forward instead of back,
even though I know full well the way ahead offers neither condolences nor comfort for the fight I've just lost.
Lost not like a failed assault or a sidestepped attack,
Lost like a Boy Scout alone,
abandoned and stranded in the middle of the ocean
with nothing but a pocket knife
to keep him company.

I know I've lost my footing.
I'm falling so hard I can't tell how fast I'm going or when I first lost my grip.
Lead lungs weighing me down,
and a nice cold soul scratching at my skull for a way out of this crippling cage.
Falling for so long,
I can't imagine what the ground feels like.
Please give me strong legs to land on
or the wings to fly away.

Scars are a language branded on your skin.
Just like words, they can and will be misinterpreted,
misrepresented,
misleading and sometimes deceiving.
But a scar always says something.
Just like a word,
a statement,
accusation or declaration,
it never means nothing.
They don't disappear.
Not for the purpose of reminding you why and how it came to be,
but to propose what it says about you now.
Scars shape our lives,
But not because of what made them,
But because of what we have done since they have been there.
THAT translates the old language first carved and printed, into a verse sung by the voice deep in your head.
Mourning or rejoicing,
that voice is always louder than the ancient script stamped in flesh and signed in blood long washed away.

Clawing and scratching at the dirt his eyes could never see,
right in front of his face
he pushed the earth apart and squeezed his small body through this hole inch by inch.
Cold and damp the earth laughed at the energy he wasted.
Breath coming in gasps he screamed silently into the earth
through the ground,
no one would ever hear the voice of desperation scratching it's way in the earths surface.
like a bird trying to bust the shell of it's egg too dense to ever break open and let it's life out.
The more he dug the harder the earth became.
The grittier the clay and the more impossible it became to break through. No light would ever glimpse his eyes
No ear would ever hear his laugh
No hand would ever hold his.
Fingernails long broken off
Knuckles beyond bloodied,
his desperation turned to rage turned to depression turned to silence.
At last he knew he would die.
He lay in the ground and smiled as his eyes closed.
Fingers curled into loose fists.
His lightless eyes closed finally, and he accepted his death in the embrace of the earth.
Knowing even though no one ever knew him or loved him
At least he can lay to rest in the arms of the one who held him the closest.

The pressure pressing against the edges of his teeth,
The dry heat of jealousy pounding against his skull,
in the wake of such sensitive times,
he only wishes he would have gone cold before the wind blew his love in the direction of chance.
The hot needle burrowing through his brow,
searing apart flesh and bone
itching at his thoughts before cauterizing them away with hate he never thought he could feel towards the love he cherished.
The love he once felt so close to his heart he mistook it for his own.
The heart he found so bright and strong, he tried to light his way with the warmth he had found.
But the light only fell on the cold damp cave walls of his memory, reminding him that his path of warmth and comfort ends here and now,
before his journey could ever begin,
he would die here, alone.
In a dark cave, with the flickering light he held in his chest,
dimmer and dimmer.
the flickering finally, flicks  dark.
Cold, silent, black.
Splashing the darkness into every space it could fill.
Every space he thought he had filled with light.
Against his chest his fist pounded, trying so desperately to jump start the pump.
To kick the engine back into gear,
but the spark had left him cold and bare.
Naked in the lightless cavern of his thought,
reminding him that he has always been,
and always will be alone in the dark.