Nobody's Home

One day you have a home and the next you don’t, but I’m not going to tell you my particular reasons for being homeless. Oh, alright, if you insist. You see, I used to have a house.

I bought the land. I bought the materials. I built the house myself. A modest two-story, painted white with a blue trim. It had its own garden and patio. The stepping stones were cement, which I mixed myself, and decorated with colorful rock mosaics, which I set myself. I chopped, sawed, and sanded the wood that became my picked fence, which I painted white. Inside was furniture that I got from Ikea.

But above the fireplace was a painting which I painted in my younger days. It was a stormy sea, but on the horizon was a tiny sun trying its best to bring clear skies with it.

I even cooked and cleaned for myself. I lived with myself.

But one day, I threw myself out. If you had seen the way I was acting, you would have done it, too. To get back at myself for throwing me out, I sold everything to a nice family. Then, I gave away the money so that my cheating self wouldn’t get it.

I Did Not Invite that Man

I did not invite that man--

Who now stood before me--

Nor did I welcome him

Anywhere near me.

Persistent, with an open hand;

Insistent, his tempting bare Palm;

I did not want him to have it--

My still strong, beating Heart.

I held it in my hands

As my legs carried me away--

But he would only follow--

Forever calm and patient

So many of my strides

Would equal only one of his--

As my legs sped along

With my beating Heart.

It became harder to hold--

Why was it struggling?

It was called to that beautiful man--

To his tempting bare Palm.

I tired and turned to face him.

He reached for my hands.

My fingers relaxed and he took

My no longer beating Heart.

Phoenix

A stream of expletives make up your sub-conscious, but you try to quell it. You don't swear. Not swearing has always been your small form of rebellion, an action that keeps you in solidarity with your younger self, but your younger self never went through this, so the four letter words continue to provide accompaniment to your scared shootless thoughts.

Your shoes are properly tied, double knotted and form fitting like a corset. Your racing singlet might be a corset also, for how well you're able to breathe. The involuntary act of inhaling gets stopped somewhere in the traffic jam of your nerves. You have to force it to happen, and if you don't, the reduced oxygen blood will be pumped all throughout your body, making your muscles twitchy and you stomach nauseous, like it is now. You're terrified that you'll hurl at the starting line. Careful! That was a gag. You better not swallow. You better not open your mouth.

So you don't-- you instead breathe through your nose as they lead you to the starting line. You feel your heartbeat in your throat, which is both dry and on the verge of being flooded with bile. You look around. The others look around. None seem too happy, but you know the expressions on their faces can't be as sour as your own, not with your mouth shut in such a tight grimace.

This is your "scary" face, you know, but you couldn't care less because you are more afraid of what brings it on than others are of you. You could wonder what the runner sharing your lane is thinking, whether or not they'll try to edge you out of the inside within the first turn. But you don't. You have to focus on breathing forcefully through your nose so you don't vomit. You have to keep your emotions in line so you don't just break down crying.

If someone held a gun to your head, would you cry then? You don't know, and you don't care, because the only thing that matters is getting through this. You believe in that because your life depends on it. The gun is raised, not at your head, of course, but in the air. But the shot punches through your chest. You don't fall forward in your death. Your body, quite apart from you and your expletives, springs forth into life.