three years ago,

my toes were snapped

in half.

under medical supervision,

by bones -- malformed --

were molded into perfection,

fixed.

replaced.

when i walk down city streets and

concrete,

the arthritis within my flesh begins to

creep.

crawling slowly up my legs,

curving around my hips

as i begin to

limp.

give my body seven days of

freedom.

from the pain,

the cramps,

the discomfort.

my toes would dance and float down sidewalks,

over bridges,

through the air.

i'd be weightless.

i'd arch my toes

barefoot

in the park grass,

like a natural ballerina.

i'd dance.

i'd sink my feet on the beach in coney island.

digging into the

wet sand,

feeling no rocks, no shells,

i'd sprint.

when morning comes

i'd leap out of my bed,

my feet following my body with ease,

no cramps,

no numbness,

no pain.

i'd be free.

I used to think my father was fearless.

Standing with a strong, 6’4 stature and never sporting anything less casual than a pair of khakis, to see my father, my seven-year-old eyes would have to forever gaze up, making the superhero in my life— that me and my siblings called the Daddy Man—that more magical. He could do anything—reach the cookie jar from the top shelf in the kitchen, kill the spiders in our bathroom, even brave the scary darkness and rid it of monsters, holding my hand until I could fall asleep. To me he feared nothing, and everything feared him.

But then it happened. The towers next to my father’s building—and where he used to work for years before — disappeared, and everything changed.

Being only a second-grader in a New York commuter-based town in Connecticut, they didn’t tell us what happened until we got home from school — too many parents, too many family members might have been affected. But when my teacher received a phone call after our morning reading session, bursting into tears, we could sense that something wasn’t right.

Getting off the bus on that sunny September day, I glanced at my mother, who was holding a box of tissues, hugging the other parents on our street corner. ‘Was she sick?’ I wondered. She hurried me and my two siblings home, and silently clicked on the television, where we could see the horror that had filled downtown New York. Every single channel showed the same loop of video—the towers, the planes, the smoke, the collapse. Over and over, the images flashed onto the screen, and me and my siblings silently stared, not sure if something like this was even possible. Through the smoke, I could see the dome of my father’s building, still standing next to the rubble. I looked at my mother, puzzled.

“Daddy’s okay, remember that.... Daddy’s okay.” My mother seemed to be reassuring herself more than her children, who at just seven and nine didn’t process what was going on right way. She was reminding herself that my father was able to get a cell phone signal and call that he was in midtown that day, and that he was safe.

I don’t remember my dad coming home that day—I’m not sure if he was able to make it out of the city, or if he just got home very late. But what I do remember is that he wasn’t the same. After that, he didn’t return to work for three months, waiting for his building to be cleared, and the smoked to subside. I was delighted that my dad starting working from home—as a kid I rarely saw him besides on weekends — but was soon disappointed when he began to shut the door to the office, a door that was only closed when he had an important call. Through the glass of the French doors, I could see that something was different, something had changed. The stress lines on his forehead and eyes seemed deeper, the playful twinkle in his eyes changed to a distracted glaze, his smile was replaced by a permanent, solemn frown. I didn’t get what was happening—we were all safe, wasn’t that enough?

And then I realized—he was afraid.

Years later, my mother would confide in me that my father’s distracted eyes were from not being able to sleep, seeing the towers smoke, and then fall—something he witnessed on a fifth avenue street corner—constantly play over and over, causing him to bring the very Blackberry that was able to reach my mother to bed, clutching it until he could finally drift to a fitful sleep. My father—the same person who could conquer any fright my childish imagination could think of, from monsters in my closet to a mysterious sound outside—was terrified.

But this wasn’t the same type of fear I knew.  Unlike the spiders my father protected me from, I couldn’t roll up an issue of the Times and squash away his night terrors, throw away his recurring visions, or have him hold my hand instead of his cell phone so he could fall asleep. This was the kind of fear that was invisible, the kind of fear that even made saying “I’m so scared” terrifying. It was deep, it was earth shattering, and there was nothing I could do.

Fourteen years and four moves later, my father still hasn’t spoken to me about that fateful day, what he saw, or his PTSD. I can never tell if it’s a matter of his masculine pride that he doesn’t divulge his feelings, or the fact that he to wanted to hold onto his status as the Daddy Man for as long as he could. Looking back, I know my father is not fearless, for he is, like all of us, human.

But I realized that fearlessness, in actuality, isn't the trait we should honor. It’s the strength and the determination to move on with life after something like this changes you, to not let the change control who you are. And he didn’t; after working from home, he returned to the office, continued working, but never forgetting.

And for that, he’ll forever be my superhero.

sometimes they want to hurt you

when the soft touches don’t leave a warm smile on your face

and you just want to

leave

such brief, fleeting words

on music, work, jobs

are nothing more than polite discourse

you’re waiting in line, and he’s there.

it’s all a disappointment really,

his lack of interest,

but to fuck you

and even the fucking is a disappointment

your body struggles to contort to his standards, as he

struggles to keep it up after five drinks

you want him to leave, but he just never does

and you never insist

in bed, you can’t sleep, his tight embrace is but a shallow comfort

his warmth just a temporary touch

so morning comes,

and you politely refuse another round

quietly pulling on the biggest shirt you own to blanket

the emptiness

he leaves

you’re relieved.

but sometimes they want to hurt you

when they see a tasteful parting of lives as

not what they wanted

their lifeless fucktoy taken away from their childish hands.

they’re no longer entertained

no longer in control

they’re nothing.

so therefore, you must be

must be nothing too.

when they hurt you,

they know how

to paw their way into your gut.

ripping out your dignity

to protect that whimpering thing

between their legs.

your soft curves are now swollen fat.

your sense of humor nothing but word of a

cunt.

your compassion is nothing.

sometimes they want to hurt you.

they want you to be nothing

like they're nothing.

they are nothing.

I have something they call

a melted heart.

A vicious form that glides through my chest,

sliding through a vacant cavity,

never sticking,

never committing.

Long ago, this heart was solid,

secure in its skeletal home,

in its protected castle.

It used to open its gates

letting others see its whole

smooth,

hard candy surface.

Sweet to the tongue,

and warm.

A taste that left roses,

red,

on your cheeks.

But flowers wilt and fade,

melting back into the earth

where nothing

nothing but the dirt of their toes

remain.

Deep within my chest,

now,

are the tendrils of once was.

The petrified roots,

soured with poison,

dead, but remaining.

Try to brush your lips against it,

try.

And feel the thorny bristle that’s replaced

the softness,

A dull notes that whispers a soft negation.

Please,

no.

when i close my eyes,

i'm wrapped

--enveloped--

in you.

your warmth layers my skin

with a fragrance of comfort,

of safety.

i cling to this

in the stillness of the dark.

hot tears and a warm chest

confused passion and despair.

a love reciprocated.

so i draw a bath.

the warmth,

to embody your arms.

the suds,

to calm my heart the way

your soft kisses do.

with glassy eyes and lavender tears

i breathe.

im Waxahatchee still in

the water, alone,

lacking.

am i lacking?

yet,

submerging myself in the bubbles

isn't the same

as laying my head on your chest.

isn't the same as wrapping my legs around you

as we hide inside a cocoon of blankets.

isn't the same as brushing my lips against your skin

to comfort you.

to comfort me.

when i close my eyes,

im with you.