Anxious and excited, she told us her tooth was loose. Over and over to the hallway mirror, checking on it. I’m sure she kept pressing her tongue against it, absentmindedly and often, the way we all do with the gaps.
And then the next day, popped right out of her mouth at the arcade.
We left her a coin from the other side of the world under her pillow.
My little girl, I can’t stop you while you forge on ahead. Can I at least hold your hand?

I have no poetry, ach my love how can I explain. I have only chattering and faceless voices that tune in and out from somewhere very far until they rush upon me and all the world is made of glass and skittering I try to capture it or them. Or I used to.

we found it all quite remarkable, the brokenness of him, the spittle and the remorse, the mockery of all that he was, the stain of his children, the wounds of his wife. he sits on the porch and writes and abuses himself. he is all abuse. little kindness left, selfish mongrel. and the air he breathes, cool and dry in the midst of a full blown summer, reminds him of a time where he was alive and she was alive and their days were long and they had their future ahead of them and he was pure and uneventful.
but instead, instead, instead.

a certain kind of weakness, of despair. an undefinable ache that resists medication. and the urge to remain immobile, to engorge yourself, to keep your self filthy.
at any given point, the mirror stares back. and somehow, somehow, you move through the day. untouchable, unreachable, inconsolable.

Down on the highway, out in the open plains, fields of restless tress in the dark, you drive. So long since you’ve been behind the wheel. And he not there. He somewhere behind you, dreaming, cold, naked and alone. The road curves, lazy and slow, and the moon on the horizon, clear and laughing.

Where is my mercy?
Where is my stroke of luck that will absolve us of debt and deliver us comfort?
Where is my shining moment of splendor, where I provide endlessly and am admired by all?
I am nothing but a fuck up and a charlatan. I bleed bluster and incompetence.
It takes all my will and their need to not gouge open my eyes.

Convince me I am not vile and stupid. Convince me that I can be redeemed. Convince me that I can find solace in everything that everyone else finds beautiful and pure.
And I would call you a liar. I only care for what is mine. My life, my love, my children, my sorrow, my anger, my pain.
I could give a shit about anything or anyone else.

Yes, I know I am ill. I know that the pathos and sorrow I feel have nothing to do with the life I have lived or what I have seen.
Others have gone through worse.
My life is a dream fulfilled: a loving and beautiful wife, two kids, a big beautiful house, an easy job, tv’s, movies… I am want of nothing.
And yet, and yet…
I know it’s chemical. I know the despair I feel is an arrangment of neurons and synapses out of sync. I know I am wired wrong.
But, where would I be without my anger?
Would I have any of this, you, this life, if I wasn’t this way?
And I love you because you bear with it. I love you because despite what I am, you love who I am.
It is a truth that needs repeating.