The moonlight creeping through the patchy fog outlines the vague shape of a man and the crumbling gravestone he leans against. The bit of chin, cheek and forehead, stripes of marble skin and marble stone like a smudge on paper. Blending there shadow merges the bulk of nondescript fabric and broken rock etched with collapsed details. A hand reaches towards the moon to watch the play of light and shadow of the swirling liquid in his glass. The amber chasing itself, a gentle transition of gold, then orange fading into darkness, silhouettes blending into one another then beginning again. He toasts the grave, throws his head back and swallows. Feels it continue the chase in his mouth, down his throat and settle in his stomach. The taste of honeyed fruit followed by the heavier smoothness of vanilla dissolves into tendrils of not entirely pleasant oaky smoke. He savors that unpleasantness rooting in his belly most and it seems most fitting. tonight. He loved his job, the unfettered chaos of it, the brackish grit of it invading his pores clumping under his nails.

I am always happiest When there is color or dirt On my hands, Under my nails, Swiped carelessly down my pant leg. The visible remnants Of creating Of beginning

Sometimes I am only on a boat and it rocks and bobs under me, sometimes I am on a lazy river and it's just a gentle sway, sometimes I AM the boat in an angry sea and everything inside you is flying around untethered and crashing into the walls of your body. (Fairly obvious comparisons, I know). But sometimes I am just the ripple of a footstep in a puddle that only means you have made a movement through the world. Sometimes I am a frog hopping between your ribs, landing with an extra bounce under it's bottom. Sometimes I am a balloon bouncing along a wooded path in a child's hand. Sometimes I am a baby swayed and rocked in loving arms. Sometimes I am a child on a swingset who has gone too high, feet pointed to the sky, waiting for the thunk of the poles and seat to rise and fall with the half frightening thwack beneath me and the rattle of chains. Sometimes I am a rubber band in your belly, stretching and twisting. Sometimes when I push and pull in algae rich water that feels almost oily, I am merely a fish on a line pulling against the hook and current. Sometimes I am angry, sometimes I am afraid, sometimes I soothe, sometimes I whisper I am here, but only just.

I’ve created a monster A soul that is afraid to feel too deeply A brain that tells me of imaginary dangers A body that forgets how to carry itself And I’ve created it all to hold In a fortress of protection A love that only belittled and betrayed Broke and ripped open healing wounds With envious fingers And half smiles Dripping with false stories Of my failures I created it for you, This monstrous version of myself, And to you I return it For I am building my soul A new temple Which you cannot enter Your footsteps will never Echo down my hallowed halls Your inventions and stories Will not be told here Your hate disguised as love Will not bear the gaze Of newly cleared eyes Your chains and fallacies Cannot hold me any longer I will feel deeply I will scream the name of every emotion If I so choose I will calm my over worried brain With love and the safety of my arms And I will walk and dance on strong legs And the whisper of quick feet Beneath my strong body I’ve created a new beast I call her by my own name

Rage built unbidden into my throat, thick, acidic and sharp edged. It was a momentary knife in my throat until I remembered myself and tamped it back down as deep as I could reach into myself where it would be safe and unnoticed. Tomas cocked an eyebrow and pursed his lips, unsure whether he had seen the flash in my eyes or had imagined it. With a small shrug he dismissed the idea and turned away from me. He hadn’t thought I would be capable of forgetting myself so completely. He knew me as always calm, reliable, smile plastered like a poster on my face, the very image of the required persona devoid of any negative emotions which were frowned upon, much less anger which was downright illegal.
I had some old written materials that traced the history of the men who outlawed anger and restricted the use of certain other emotions. In them I had gleaned that the reasoning for such an outrageous idea was chillingly simple. The first thing, a dictator, an abuser, an immoral monster does to control and break down the subject of their wrathful need for control is to begin disassembling them. To pick them apart piece by piece, removing parts, thoughts, confidence, everything that ties them to a sense of self. The first piece taken makes all the others delightfully easy to slide out, makes the man made automaton so much easier to rearrange in a most pleasant way. That first piece taken must always be to remove the subjects right to feel anger, whether it is chipped away bit by bit, small act by small act. Small bits and questionable acts always work better, it is much harder to be angry or disturbed by a bee that accidentally stings than it is to be angry at a man that has smashed your knees with a well aimed slam of a hammer. Better to take the solid ground from beneath a righteous argument bit by innocuous bit, to change slowly the goalposts between right and wrong. To twist the question, change the answers, erase the truth of the action and hide it behind bewilderment rather than to have the prettily built fog of disinformation burned off in the bright light of well deserved anger.

Some days my body tells me I am in a boat on the sea Sometimes the current is gentle Lulling, the smooth sway of a baby In it’s mothers arms Sometimes the ocean is angry A raging current that Pulls me until I can’t tell Where the horizon is And my hands clutch the rails Seeking steady footing. And on days where the sea Is a mass of jumping crashing waves Of anger and fear My body tells me I am the boat And nothing inside me Is properly anchored And I feel the careening Of everything in me Slamming from side to side, Crashing breaking tossing. How I long to find calmer waters, To chase them into port So I may finally reach land And find my body, my legs, my brain Stolid and strong under me.

Papa has been having mini heart attacks since you left us so abruptly. He says, "I don't know why, I don't have much stress." I tell him, "Grief is nothing but stress." I don't say that I think maybe grief isn't an all at once thing. I think maybe it's more like a mirror. The first shot created a shattering in its center, like a fist through a wall, the recognizable impact of too much emotion exploding all at once. But I didn't realize that it doesn't move from there. It stays on the mirror, too heavy and immovable on that broken surface, and it continues to crack from the weight of all of the things that come with it. All the emotions, the words that are carefully molded in a dry mouth and leak from wet eyes. Sometimes I think I can hear the mirror cracking again that noise that sounds like nothing else. That grinding of pieces that don't fit anymore. Sharp and grating, sandpaper that has forgotten it's job and doesn't smooth the rough spots that catch fingers searching for the pieces of you, just makes them sharper, hones cutting edges so they cut deeper. Catching sight of memories and flips of photographs in those small glittering pieces. Splintering more, some bits deep chasms, some spiderweb thin, it seems like none of those pieces of you are whole in my head anymore, and you're reflected a million times in a million ways that I can make no sense of. I can't reach the anger phase, partly because I am told anger is a Negative Emotion, partly because it seems so disloyal. Maybe that holds me here still on the mirror. Maybe I'm afraid that if I step off, I'll lose your reflection. That if I move too much The weight of my body, The heaviness of my grief Will grind those pieces into sand and I'll lose you on the breeze or a too heavy sigh. But I think some of the pain in Papa's heart is that mirror in him that reflected you is shattering inside him, a ragged, continuous cracking from your heart to his. Grief dribbled out bit by bit, splinter by splinter. I think grief is not like other things with a lot of pieces, it's not a puzzle, Not a machine to be built, torn down and rebuilt. It's a mirror, because once it's in pieces It never goes back together quite right.

Your mark on me has been indelible a garish entrance stamp to a club that I left long ago. I have scrubbed, I have scraped, I have painted over that mark, With new experiences, New lovers, New versions of me. But still that mark bleeds through, A dark, ugly, unrepentant, jagged brand. The one part of you That is left in me. But I have one question for you: Is this what you meant, What you hoped for, When you said I’d never get over you?

I am saying goodbye To the girl who led me here Twisting at the end of her too tight leash The girl who told me they were right I am not enough I am beyond repair I am unworthy of it I am saying goodbye To that version of me Who told me the electric bolts She called truth Were well meant Misunderstood love letters That would keep me safe From danger, from the unknown From rejection From life I am saying goodbye to her And creating a new Face in the mirror Voice in my head That looks at me with pride And speaks to me with love

I am torn in two Between who I was And who I am yet to be Can I return to the shell of who I was And tuck myself inside Safe and sound before I knew I was broken Or must I reveal the cracks To unfiltered light And put my arms elbow deep Into new wet clay And rebuild myself A new temple For a brighter, more complete soul