I stood in the entryway, and I told you he is gone.
I did that.
I know what happened when you left.
The reality of words.
I’ve been on the other side of the conversation.
It’s okay.
I cried too.
Not for him, but for you.
When I look into their faces as I read them the poem, I still see the young man (who was almost constantly in a cast of some sort) sitting in a middle school classroom. I see his energy and exuberance in their young and promising eyes, and my heart breaks again… and again… and again.
Every day is a battle. Every day I fight to keep the mess inside and be better. Every day I fight the lies of who I feel myself to be with a grasping at who I am made to be.