Poems, photos, rants and raves that are all inevitably me in one form or another.
Nothing more heartbreaking than the man you love (or the woman/person/etc) crying in complete helplessness and anger in front of you about something that can’t be fixed.
And I don’t want to hear a damn thing about real men crying. All the men I’ve seen cry have built up these emotions over a long time, probably because they feel like they could not cry. I don’t know. I’m not a man, and I cry a lot.
He was so angry, so broken over his dad’s part and departure in his life, still haunting him years after, and I had nothing to say. I didn’t know what to say; I didn’t want to bullshit him, and tell him everything was going to be okay.
So I wiped away his tears and held his hand, and kissed his cheek, tears running down my own face as I tried to console him. And I quietly reminded him that his pain shouldn’t be swept under the rug.
I remember thinking that this was inevitable; no man without a father, either through life circumstance or death (and I’ve date quite a few) has resolve on the issue. Men as it is often have difficulty with their fathers. I thought that he dealt with the circumstances (not mine to share) remarkably well. And poor thing has been thinking for years that he has to, that he doesn’t have room to complain.
This doesn’t change anything, this hidden anger and grief. He is more vulnerable than I thought, but that’s what partners do for one another. Support one another, for better or for worse. He has stroked my hair while I curled up on my bed, sobbing, and has listened to me, seen me battle my demons. I will do nothing less for him.
And over the sound of ice cubes clinking,
I laugh about that time—you know, when my knuckles were swollen and purple from my own clumsiness.
Offhand, you muse that the timing made you think that maybe
my hand, black and purple and yellow and green
was reflective of the pain you caused me.
I stop and pause and turn
to pretend that you haven’t seen me so clearly
Turn again, my poker face
your puzzled face
You see that when you left me, at first
the bruises spread from heart to hand.
I think, as shame spreads to my cheeks, about the quickest way to run
but you pull me into your room and hold me so tight
I can’t breathe.
Apologies spilling from your lips
And the misery I felt, then
is absolved by the love you have given me