it is three in the morning again
and i'm clinging to the t-shirt you gave me
i've whispered your name thirty seven times
to the dust on my nightstand
and the ink stains on my bedspread.
i imagine you cling to her warmth
you no longer have to lie next to
my stone cold, anemic body
i shiver at the thought
or maybe it is the fact
that i have not eaten much
this week and that the weather
is quite frigid for the month of march.
i pull your t-shirt closer to me, trying to
create some sort of heat source. i haven't
had the thermostat on since you left
because i do not have the money to pay
for such things.
the musky scent of you no
longer lingers off your t-shirt,
my old roommate threw it in the wash
so i threw her out.
I cling tighter to your t-shirt
causing my knuckles to crack
and the dry, crisp skin on my
hands to split open
the pain doesn't hurt anymore
i am used to this pain

she leaves
everything
on a page,
all her sorrow,
her love
and her rage,
and I truly believe
she will write
herself free
of the jailers
who fastened
her cage.

Are you sure you want to slip into that drink?
Being numb to the world isn't as great as you think.
Granted, it can make dealing with people easier.
It's hard to give a **** when you just want to sleep.

But you'll say things.
Things that are strange and mean and way out of character.
You'll become a caricature of your former self.
Even if you never knew who you were before,
rest assured, the drinking does not help.
Soul searching goes out the window when you're constantly blacked out.

But you won't be able to do it every night, try as you might.
Some entire days will be spent in bedridden recovery.
Your body will finally give in to that much needed sleep -
the kind you've been painfully longing for all week.
But the bliss you'll feel at this will be bittersweet,
because it's during these times that you'll dream.
You'll dream alright.
Frightful things that I can't even begin to describe.
Mountains of dread that will tear you to shreds,
and they'll feel far more real than your liquor-drenched life.

They'll drive you from your bed
to go and do it over again.
Make another fool out of yourself.
Alienate all your friends.
"Ah, **** 'em! Who needs 'em?
I don't even like them anymore."
Then the rumours will spread.
They'll call you a *****.
They'll call you a *******, a liar, and weak.
And they'll be nothing you can do about it,
because no one takes you seriously.
Even if they never say it out loud (and they won't,)
you'll know it's what they're thinking.
(Projecting is a psychological side effect of continued excessive drinking.)

There will be times in between,
fleeting moments of clarity,
where you'll look into a mirror and think:
What the hell is happening to me?
You'll catch at a thought as it crawls through your brain
and realize it's completely crazy -
that you are actually (no ****, legit) going in-*******-sane,
and you'll laugh.
You'll laugh because you'll know exactly who's to blame.
You'll be freaked out and terrified,
but you'll laugh all the same.

There will be other times too,
after all the rants and raves and screams and shouts,
the tears and fears and crippling doubts -
there will come a time when you want out,
but by then it will already be too late.
They'll be nothing left inside but anger and hate.

So before you sink into that drink, I say,
Wait!
Before you go breaking hearts and lose all your friends,
get out while you still can.
I hope you're listening.
I pray you comprehend,
because if shame doesn't do it first,
the dreams will get you in the end.

I wouldn't call them scars. Our bodies are ancient calendars marked with times and places. Tonight, you are not real. You are the desperate ocean lapping at the shoreline trying to take back the secrets in the bottles cast off by lovers, and children, letters to the dead sometimes. They are not your secrets, but they came to you first. They are full of feelings you have once felt or will feel. The bottles glisten in the sand mockingly, beautifully, painfully, like window shopping for jewelry you'll never be able to afford. You never expect to want the glass back after it has been pulled out of you. But the stories inside are your stories now too. You cast them off in the same manner hoping somone better than the sea will find them. The story about your cancer, your mother, the love you feel right now, the love returned, the time you thought of the beauty of a flower, the flower you killed to show someone how beautiful it was, the realization of the importance of stillness. All those stories like broken bottles in your skin. Like jewels encrusted on a big brass door leading to a room you live in. But tonight, you are the ocean at high tide, finally getting your bottles back.

You are not my children,
tender as you are.
You are not my lover,
though you cause my heart to yearn.
You are not my sun,
or my moon,
or my star.

I set you on this rock;
you will not make me burn.

You are simply sticks,
arranged upon the pyre.
You are clever tricks,
though you flaunt my clear desire.
You are not the match,
or the wick,
or the fire.

I set you on this rock;
To see what might transpire.

You will never be a pheasant's egg to be coddled.
You are only this: a calf led to the slaughter.

The closest thing to God my father has ever seen, is dawn at the brim of a lake.
Finding forgiveness in its tides.
Seeking solace in its depths.
Building a chapel on a coasting boat.
Discovering answered prayers hooked on a line.
There’s a hallelujah echoing from the trees, if you stay silent long enough to listen to the birds.
You can find grace in a no wake zone.
I’ve always admired my father for unveiling hidden faith in the heart of nature.
For developing a catch and release mantra.
Feel and withdraw.
Love and surrender.
Live and abdicate.
I’ve never been much of a believer in God until I saw the same light at dawn in my father’s irises.
I found the same forgiveness in his hands.
I sought solace in his mind.
I built a chapel on his morals.
And discovered answered prayers in the strength he hooked in me.
I am silent and still, hearing a hallelujah echoing every time he says he’s proud.
I have found grace in knowing we share the same blood.
My father loves me like a prize winning fish at the end of his line.
He reels me in, and lets me go.
Because he knows I was never born to be a trophy.
I was born to be a legend.
Catch and release.
Love and surrender.
That’s how I know, and how I believe.
For only God could design such a man.