The dimensions are folding,
Mold in the basement, my breathing hasn’t been golden.
Though tragic the story, I forgot to write the ending
Of a sick little kid, who’s gotten rather good at pretending.
Mention not - here’s a token:
The more revolting your thoughts, the more glorious your potion.
Everything I say contains a tint of that poison.

Hello my lifeline.

I hope the suffering is manageable.  If you don’t see the light, just breathe and wait.  You’ll see it eventually.

In my experience, I always saw life through a microscope.  Dissecting - every path, every decision - to the densest part of its core.  For what? For personal satisfaction.  For peace of ego.  I am sorry to disappoint you, but the part of you that wants to know every answer will never have enough.  

As I write this to you (a bit prematurely, I might add), I think about what has truly mattered to me in my life thus far.  Laughter. Sunlight. Deep embraces, especially with women.  But just as important have been the tensions and the moments of immense pressure.  Good is only relative to how well you can endure the bad, my son. To be honest, I am not able to cry as much as I wish I could.  Sometimes, I think my feelings don’t work as good as others.  

I tell you all this to arrive at the greatest defeat of my life.  The time I let my ego make the ruling, and my soul beared the eternal consequence.  I had a father quite similar to yours.  He was stubborn.  That’s what I remember most about him.  One difference between him and I was that we didn’t trust each other.  But you and I, we do.  I hope.  At some point in our journey, I had the choice to choose love, choose God towards my father.  To be a kind man to a battered one.  I decided against it.  I pitied myself.  I was bitter.  It was the wrong decision.  

Now, I realize how an intelligent man like yourself might interpret this message as extortion.  Your old man wants to insure his son will listen to him when I’m old.  This is not the case.  This message is just an opportunity to say I love you and I’m human.  You are healing me, simply by being.  I wish my father could have said this to me.


With Love,
Dad

I write poetry
born from a feeling, an emotion—
I’m not even sure what.

Almost like a kind of rapture,
the words come,
and I pour them onto paper
or into my notes app.

I wonder if one day
the poems will come with nothing—
existing just to exist.

Will this feeling, emotion,
or whatever it is,
ever arrive
separate from the poetry?

If a heart can tremble,
mine is trembling now.

That thing about the law of attraction—
well,
I imagined my divorce,
imagined myself radiant,
dancing wildly,
happy,
without you.

Look at us —
everything’s falling apart now.

We don’t talk anymore.
We’ve become roommates.
Apartment 403,
welcome.

He works,
I stay home —
that’s the dynamic.

I asked what would become of us,
what you wanted me to do,
and I found myself longing
for you to actually tell me what to do.

If you said, die,
I would die.
Just please —
not in a painful way.

Maybe the problem is me—
that I loved too much.

I wanted you to give yourself
the way I give myself.
I wanted you to cry for me
the way I cry for you.
I wanted you to care for me
the way I care for you.

To give you an idea—
I talk to you even when you’re not with me.

My God,
that’s awful.
I did give too much of myself,
and I don’t know how to change it.

It’s not just with you—
it’s with everyone.
I love too much.
That’s the problem.
Or maybe not.

Maybe the problem
is expecting you to love me
the way I love you.

But now I hate you.
You’re showing me
how much of an idiot I am
for giving myself away like this.

Because no one cares.
You don’t care.

I don’t think I ever gave you love—
it was charity.
It was my desperation
taking the lead.

How could you let
such an important date
go by unnoticed?

I came home
and you were asleep.
How?
It was supposed to be special—
even if we celebrated another day,
today never comes back.
Never.
It’s gone.

And I think I’ve grown.
I always give another chance,
always tell myself it will get better.

And yes,
the problem is me—
I keep carrying this relationship
on my back,
feeling bad for making you feel bad.

When I feel bad, you say,
“*******, leave me alone,”
and disappear for two days,
then act like nothing happened.
“All good.”

There’s no nonviolent communication
that could calm my rage,
my hate.

I will touch myself this time
with hunger,
as revenge
for all the pain you caused me—
and you won’t even know.

I’ll think of other men,
because in my mind
they’re better than you.

Why do I keep breaking myself
to make others whole?
To make you happy?
I’m not happy.

You know I take medication
just to be okay—
and still,
this won’t work.

I need to give a little love
to myself too.
A lot of love, actually.