Each morning there’s a stranger in the mirror, watching me shave.

On my knees, I thank God for you. On my back, I try to find a way to tell you things are different now. About how I’ve learned to live with less. Learned to sacrifice everything like the future is in immediate danger. How I’ve sought my Damascus. Began to appreciate, maybe even cherish the things I couldn’t get rid of. I’ve found the greatest challenge is convincing others that I am trying my very best at living decently.

My years have passed in a melange of sighs. I do not count the days nor keep the time anymore. I am no longer mindful of the way events can grade. This came to pass, through all the masked tragedies, in which my lines finally broke, in the past, present, or future tense. I wonder if I am a man worthy of peace, or just another mannequin, crushed beneath the shadow of St. Michael.

I travel myriad miles of bad road with my destination still unmapped. I walk with the gratitude of the born again junkie who would kill to reclaim all his lost shares of Shangri-la. My aching acts as my armor here. And I celebrate myself because I am something holy. Still, I’m fucked up. Tryin’ too hard to be the cool kinda guy that every cool kinda guy is tryin’ to be nowadays. Like, I want to be someone else sometimes but with the same immaculate hairline.

You see, I’ve done things downright cringe worthy; spilled blood and am not ashamed, looked into the barrel of a gun, watched friends die. I keep big big big secrets for decades and when I finally confess, no one listens.

Yet, there is no man more loving than even half of me.

I will provoke a level of emotion in you that could be dangerous.


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