One day
I met a man
tall, lanky, and grey.
He would smile
if someone looked at him,
his hands moving
in every direction
when he would talk,
his legs shivering
from the weight
of his shoulders.
He would fidget
with his clothes
trying to perfect them,
scratching his beard
picking it apart
hair by hair,
sweating his heart out
sitting in an
air-conditioned room,
but his eyes,
his eyes had something.
As if,
they were tired
from the all grief
he had been carrying
not shedding any
part of it
as if a mannequin
came to life,
As if,
his eyes were tired
of the weight of
the tears he had been
carrying all this time.
He learned all his life,
how to be a good man,
how to be a good son
how to be a good friend,
but one thing he couldn't learn,
how to face his grief.
One thing he couldn't learn
is how to be more human.
Because it's only human
to grieve, cry, and then
be able to feel other things.
It's only human
to be human.

i’m.
waiting.
for the one.
who will hug.
my broken pieces.
back together again.

there are many things that have not killed me,
and yeah, i guess they made me stronger.
but until those scars became strength,
i cut myself on all those sharp edges
of the shattered thing i had become.

and picking up those pieces was
a slow and painful thing that
painted my fingers,
my palms,
in bright cherry red.

i asked myself if it was worth it,
bleeding fingers stuck in my mouth.
just surviving was so exhausting.
how was i ever going to muster
the strength to put myself back
together with duct tape
and safety pins
and so many disappearing purple
glue sticks?

there was a comfort found in this state,
my body found homeostasis in the
barren battlefield of itself.
i told myself i could build a home
among the smoldering remains,
could learn to love the black smoke
that hung over everything i saw.

i told myself so many things
while on hands and knees in
hopes of finding who i once was
in the dirt and discarded memories.

i told myself i could stay there
if i wanted to,
let all those sharp edges slice
me into ribbons thinner than paper
that could be carried away on the
wind to a place that just didn’t hurt
so **** much.

i told myself that giving up
wouldn’t make me weak,
just so very human.
but a stubborn light inside of me
refused to burn out, like the porch light
left on night after night until
you make it back home.

and i clawed my way out of
that wreckage.
and i’ve got the scars to show
for it, the still sleepless nights
and sometimes even worse nightmares.

but so many of those sharp edges
have been rounded down into
shapes that fit together more
often than not, slotted into place
to make something stronger than
what and
who and
how i used to be.

i just had to survive the healing
process first, because the getting
better is what **** near
killed me.