I wonder if you would’ve had your fathers nose, 

And my eye lashes.
I wonder if being a little happier could’ve kept you around a little longer.

I wonder if you would’ve made sense of things,
like babies are supposed to do

And of course I wonder all of the little things that mothers are supposed to wonder,
like how it would’ve felt to feel your precious kicks,
to hear your heartbeat for the first time and know it was real.
I wonder if you would’ve been a rambunctious little boy
or a boisterous baby girl.
And I wonder if he could’ve bared to hurt you, too.

In some ways
I’m glad you didn’t stick around long enough to find out

In other ways,
I wish I had someone to love more than myself
again

I lost something inside of me,
I lost a living creature inside of my body.
I feel like i am paralyzed
I feel like something has been taken away from me.
I will forever feel emptyness inside my body.
I will forever be unable to look at myself the same way.
I lost a child, that could have been beautiful
I lost myself in every way.
How shall i deal with this pain?

He called me beautiful.
"You're so beautiful", said he.
It should have been sweet,
a compliment to flow off one's tongue,
but I knew what he wanted.

His lustful lies are empty
to my delicate heart.
I know better than to fall
for the charming prince
with the beautiful words.

Why I Lay Awake at Night

Some people lay in their beds unable to sleep,
unable to dream, or not wanting to.
They each have their own reasons not to enter the nights embrace,
Whether it is the future or the past.
I find myself with a foot in both camps, fearing the past and future,
As my mind decides which nightmare is to come on a nightly basis.

Should I remember the looks on my family’s faces, the rage inside,
When I looked into my cousin’s coffin, the victim of a cold-blooded ******.
The face of his murderer and the image of the acceptance letter to West Point,
The kind Lieutenant Colonel or the Deacon who presided over Requiem.
These all haunt me at night,
The images of a time past and great loss.

Should I be tortured with other images instead,
Those of my uncle or brother or a different cousin, all in the Air Force.
I cannot help but think of what may happen,
Of the horrors of war and loss.
I live in fear of the letter bearing the seal of the Air Force,
of the phone call from my mother or the two officers at the door.

Finally, there is my grandfather, who served in the U-boats,
One who never showed fear, at least to me, reduced to a frail old man in his last months.
A once proud, strong man, a father of 3 daughters,
A fighter, a survivor of untold horrors from the forties.
I build him the box in which he now resides,
And I see him before me when sleep does not come.

There are few things that can haunt someone like death,
Or death yet to come.
There is no reprieve from this constant torture,
The fear, the agony, the sadness, except death itself.
These gruesome specters, of Christmas Past and Christmas Future,
They, are Why I Lay Awake at Night.

Pour one under the table for those who walk outside.  In memory of Spalding Gray, for what he meant to me...
    Thanks, “Spuddy”, for sharing your inner life.   Thanks for having the courage to bring so many troubles into the light.  You laughed at your troubles and allowed us a way to laugh at our own.  You put a voice to carrying an unbearable shyness or an excess of fear along with us as we go through life.  You strived to care when caring was out of fashion and in short supply.  Thanks for reminding us that life is the journey, and not only the destination.  You wrote a book.  You played a minor role in a feature film.  Those were some of your destinations.  When you shared your journey, you did it with humor, humility, and with love.  Thanks for reminding me that storytelling is all around us.  Thanks for reminding me that it need not be complex.  You were merely observant during your journey,  and you shared it through the lens of your own perception.
    I learned this January that life became unbearable for you.  If only we, your audience, could have comforted you or somehow stemmed the river; the flood that carried you to leave so early.  I would like to believe that, once you died, you might be able to hear our collective voice.  I imagine that you are able to see the people affected by your work, some inspired thus to create works of their own; tell their own awkward stories, sharing them as you shared yours.  I am far back in the line, and I eventually arrive at your table.  You flip a page in your spiral-bound notebook and take a sip of water before glancing up inquiringly.  I only have one thing to say, really.  “Thanks, Spalding.  Thanks for sharing”.