Here is the test to find whether your mission on Earth is finished: if you’re alive, it isn’t.
– Richard Bach
It’s hard to communicate with someone who has different expectations of me than of everyone else. I must perform, and display, and self-correct. Read a mind that sees in black and white. Do what I’m told, and what I’m not, and anticipate every desire and need. How do people let themselves get into these situations?
The incident was clear-cut
She is gone, they’re both gone.
My chance to break the cycle
Break it down
Get out of this
Get out of it
Let that go
Try, strive for life
Surface and breathe
Take it all in and live
Taken away, but for that one silver strand
That didn’t quite engage
She left, taking her daughter with her, and our child growing within. Our daughter. Mine, since she was four. This relationship carried a warning label, and had no antidote. This relationship was toxic and poisoned the earth. This marriage was dredging the harbor for bodies from the parking lot of the courthouse. My sunglasses allowed me to stare directly down the tunnel, while she dangled light and took it away repeatedly. I was Tantalus, staring at her reflection and her image at once, never able to reach inside.
Stay, stay behind
Eat, sleep, drink, smoke, play, repeat
Troubled, apathy like a hypodermic needle to the chest
Bringing me to life long enough
To pull my own plug
Three weeks later, the phone call. I’m already blown up, but I had no idea. It’s serious. From 1800 miles away, she says our baby has passed on. I’m destroyed. My atoms are collected somehow, long enough to sit in a room and hold her hand while our son is born. I’m not there. I’m inside myself, hiding in a corner of my mind, door locked, refusing to come out, knowing this isn’t the worst I’ll feel. The closest we came to love, came at the lowest possible time, in a year that saw the towers fall.
Did I ride the outside of the plane?
How did I get here, and get back
And get outside my own skin to this place
Scorched earth, salted, where nothing grows
I wanted to scream
But no one said a word
Six weeks of death. The despair of wanting to be surrounded, and wanting to be left alone. How many times I got in my car and drove in a random direction, only to turn around and fall back into my misery. A rare occurrence, since no one would let me drive. I should have stayed there. I should have…
I missed her torture and animosity
I loved her wicked blade buried in my back
I fantasized about her sitting on my chest
Snuffing out my life with her promises and smiles
The poison that burned my throat
All for a noble cause
What a fucking crusader
An exit ramp, but I didn’t take it. I went back, because I didn’t want to be yet another father who left that little girl. A misguided missile. An errant erroneous error, committed blatantly and willingly. I shouldn’t have gone back. Both of us would have been fine. I wouldn’t have slept my life away, only to emerge, hungry and tired. I emerged, stupid and magnetic, attracting all the suffering, repelling all the love.
I can’t. Not anymore. I have some things to do. Like living.