At 28, I have a hold of my depression.

I’m not surprised when she comes to visit,

Hell, we’ve been friends so long that she has a key to my house..

She wanders in on the most random days and eats all the food in my fridge.

Other days, she’s there when I wake up, but she just wants to sleep all day instead.

I met my depression when I was fairly young.. Probably around fourth grade.

I can’t recall if there were any major triggers; but what is a major trigger to a ten year old? My best friend moving away? Getting molested? Who knows?

All I know is she’s been with me since.

For as terrible as she’s treated me over the last two decades: causing unnecessary drama, weight gain, weight loss, forcing me to quit things that I love, pushing away people I loved, making me want to kill myself at times..

For all those terrible things, she’s also the friend that’s been there the longest and the most steady...

I never question whether I’ll see her this week or not.... Cause I know I will.

I’ve even taken medication to get rid of her.. But it doesn’t always work..

Some meds have made her angry and apathetic- thanks Prozac- never again.

Some meds have made her visit me less often for shorter periods of time.

But I know she’ll always check in.

Ya know, that friend who texts you out of the blue to remind you of that time you two did that really awful or embarrassing thing?

Yep, that’s my depression.

So No, there’s no getting rid of her...

But honestly, I don’t know if I really want to; she’s been around for so long and I share so many memories with her.

If I were to get rid of her...

What would be left of me?

There is no more wax. No more wick.

That candle burned out two years ago and you don't get to try to relight it.

No use for matches or lighters or forest fires.

That candle is staying out.

That book stays closed.

Those pages will never be illuminated again.

Chapter after chapter and I'm done reading about us.

No more secret codes or blank pages of stifled communication.

I don't feel the need to write again in that book.

No prologue or desire for a sequel.

That novel will stay closed on my shelf.

I will look to it on rainy days and smile

about a past that brought me here.

See? There are little bits and pieces that make up who we are. Everyone has them. Some are sewn together with love, some pieces barely fit... so I’m never quite certain how they got there. I want to know everything about you. From your childhood to your adolescent years to your family and when you figured out you were queer. I want to know everything. So tell me the story about how you got here. I wanna know about your scars. I want to know how you got that cut on your upper eyelid. And the lacerations I can’t see. 

Tell me, so we can fall and find the pieces that fit just so.. locking into place, because when you body was next to mine it felt real. Like something was going to work for once. I want to know everything. Paint me the story about your first love and how it came crashing down like mine. We both know that life isn’t a fairy tale. But doesn’t this feel right? Just the way your hand found mine so easily that first night... I want to know. how... How we can make this work and start our own damn story. The one of how our jagged pieces combined from you and me.

There's a part of me that craves you

in the way that we were together.

The carnal rush of your hands on my body

and my lips tracing lines on your skin.

When the world was spinning around us

but it was only you and me in that room.

Our voices and moans drowning

everyone and everything else out.

Your mouth would open and out of it

I would hear anything I needed to...

In that moment I should have known

it would never be the same with any other/

It's been years since I've felt that

undying urge to be with you.

Yet, on my weakest days... like today,

my entirety aches for just one touch.

Because we were kids and didn't

quite understand what we were doing.

I didn't know that the words you carved

into my skin would scar me for this long.

(still in editing stages)

I never understood what they meant

when they said ghosting through life.

That when you've lost so much

the only thing you can do is breathe.

Movement becomes robotic

and all speech seems programmed.

The exact phrase repeated to others

is the same message said to yourself,

"Yes, I'm fine... no, really... I'm okay"

Over and over again, until even you

start to believe there's some truth in those words.

But that's not how it really is, is it?

Not in this reality, nor the one

you force everyone else to accept.

It only becomes apparent when

you're alone after a heavy movie.

One that ends at two in the morning,

a time when the world. stands. still.

Your room resembles a false tomb

lit only by the dim glow of the credits

And that fucking upbeat indie song

feels a little ironic considering the conclusion.

So you're forced to remember

all the things you've been avoiding.

Finally, chest movements become rhythmic,

eyelids feel so burdensome

But all you can do is stare at that too blank ceiling

and breathe....

I woke up today and rolled over to your side of the bed.

If I close my eyes and try really hard, I can still smell you;

the faint scent of sawdust mixed with the cleanliness of Irish Spring.

Today is Father's Day and I don't know how to react...

My two beautiful, grown daughters lost their Dad in February

to a cancer that just a year ago had started to engulf his body.

It took him so fast that we had no idea last year

that at this same time he would be gone.

Decades of traditions are rendered past notions so quickly

and I feel the sting of loneliness as other families celebrate.

My heart aches for the once monotonous task of card shopping

and my brain fantasizes about your face while you read

the quirky, funny card from our oldest and

the sentimental one from our youngest- which always

brought a bit of grateful moisture to your eyes...

The only tears that are shed now are in your memory

and I wish I could tell you all of this in person.

We love you, Steve. And miss you more than we can ever say.

Happy Father's Day.

It’s been three months since my fingers have touched

the keys on this old laptop for reasons other than school

I have wanted to just sit here and let all the emotions

drain out of my heart through my hands... the same way

that the soiled water does at the end of a hot bath.

But time and time again, as my fists hover above the keyboard

my mind goes blank and all I can do is stare at the white screen

willing my thoughts to just splatter themselves

like ink splotches on a paper weeping from a feather pen.

There are worlds locked away in my skull

Places and people living in full detail and color

the connection between them and expression cut off

somewhere in my blood stream, not ready to be spilled

on to the barren paper or typed into stories online.

So here I sit, palms aching from staying still

heart racing with the possibility of creating again,

as I write my first words in three months...

And one day... it was over. They didn't get in a big fight, there was no cheating, neither had abused the other in any way. One day... it just changed. He had grown a little more jaded and bitter. And she, she had lost that hopeful tone that he held so dear. One day... things just felt different. She didn't feel the joy of his maniacal laughter and he didn't look at her as lovingly as he once had. One day... they just drifted apart. But oh, that was so unlike how they began many years before...