What happened to us

you ask me--

What happened.

Do you remember when I turned to you for help

I was so scared, and you, right there beside

me during our mutual struggle, together--

You have to fix this,

you told me-- Now. Or I’m gone. And you’ll deal with this alone.

What happened?

My partner in crime abandoned the scene. No-- worse,

rolled the weight onto my shoulders alone and

climbed on top

pressed down harder.

What happened-- I

was a damaged person, as we

all are, but my scars were a comfort, a

memorial tattoo of obstacles

put to rest, challenges

overcome.

But what you told me that day

in that unnamable place inverted

my mirrored shield-- I can handle anything reflected back

to me as I must handle everything

before it affects him-- or

face the consequences.

And suddenly, my vision of

the future-- our future--

was a physics exam I could never prepare for, and

I knew then

the rest of my life would be spent shoving

the report card deep in my

backpack where I prayed

you would never find it.

What happened? You

saw that hole we

were supposed to fill together and instead

of shovelling, you

planted the seed

that perhaps the digging

would be eaiser– or at least, less

frightening– alone.

My friend has many colors,

tan and blue and green and red

with heartfelt, white-rimmed eyes

and flat-ish, black-capped head.

His chest is striped and fluffy,

he likes to scream when we’re apart

and with four toes on each foot

he grips my finger and my heart.

-for my little green monster

Every time I wind

up back here I

end up wondering–

how much of my life has been spent in this

transitory space–

–this place you’re not meant to

linger– this

sometimes sanctuary

caught between “what are you doing here” and

“are you okay?”

No–

I cannot be the only one

here, trapped between the dimensions where

most people work and play, live and rest, left

alone to remain in this space where

others only seem to pass through, their

footsteps echoing into nothing until

there is only me

still here,

still here.

Forgive me for asking, but

how long have you been here?

At this bus stop? Behind the convenience store counter?

Under the awning at the bank

waiting for the rain to pass?

Are you hiding in the locker rooms

or do you need that extra moment of peace before you break

the surface of the water?

Do the isles in the library

feel safer to you,

or are you stuck here

turning the endless cans to face out

trapped by the fluorescents?

I can’t help but imagine

how many of us there really are–

with our knees pressed against our temples, taking

cover, or breathing, or counting the time

away in these shelter

prisons that were only ever meant to be temporary–

as I try to convince myself to move

away from the cold tiles

of the bathroom floor.

Drop the peach

you’ve been carrying so long;

its sickly sweet juices

have already soaked

into your shaking fingers.

I know you’re desperate

to crush the fragile flesh

feel its pulp fill your fist and

admire the bruises.

Let go-

and you’ll find

that when it hits

the ground - yes, it hurts -

But eventually

when the soft flesh finally fails

you’ll find the pit that

you’ve been holding in your

over-full breast pocket has been

buried; not beneath the pain-

but, perhaps, deep enough

to grow.

–Not that I

don’t appreciate

the effort,

of trying to fix

this hole

(you made); But-

to use a bandage,

dripping peroxide,

the size of a ring

is akin to attempting

to span the space between moons

with the index-card list

of all the other times

you’ve apologized.

And,

like them,

it only adds

to the bleeding.

I painted you a masterpiece

Hues of sinew, veins, and bone,

And I placed it on the mantel

Just above your wooden throne.

Was your crown too heavy

To turn your mighty head?

Or… did you have no interest

In these colors I have bled?

This mosaic I have made for you

Lies dusty by your door,

And my thousand perfumed letters

Scattered, sealed, upon the floor…

My works have failed to please you-

Thus my muse abandoned me.

So I’ll throw these o’er the castle walls

For all the world to see.

You live your whole life in a

one-by-one-foot box

And I have to wonder:

Do you think that’s the whole world?

Or have you already realized

that it’s actually much smaller?

–for Solf

that every ambition

turns out to be some diamond-

ring-backed rattlesnake that

lures you in-

to chasing it and

the moment you realize how

far you have run and all

you have left behind, it

senses your hesitation,

turns and

strikes.

I got what I wanted,

you realize, at one point,

the coffee mug growing cold against

your concrete palms.

Or if you haven’t yet,

trust me– you’ll know

when that pit of swallowed morals and tongue-

-tied cherry stems hits your stomach and you

can’t help but stare down

that bastard blaming you from

the dirty mirror above the sink.

I got what I wanted.

...was it worth it?