Hey there, Psyche. Damn, I know it’s been forever
Decades passed in silence, then only a shitty letter
Though they say an asshole never really recovers
This ass hopes you found far better friends and lovers
Whisky brown hair, brilliant smile, the fairest blue eyes
Sharper and brighter than all the stars in Southern skies
Just one second, this ain't one of them pining love songs
More a long-waiting tattered lists of souls I’ve done wrong
One bad night, drunkenly convinced I’d been strung along
I became another toxic creep, another entitled hard-on
Flashes of trembling hands, tears took up shop in my head
But I blacked out enough to not remember what all I said
When really you needed a best friend, not a jealous loser
Instead, I walked away, wanting only to not exist to you
It’s been years since then, paid in therapy reckonings
Took a while to learn, romance starts by looking within
But still, what’s worse, digging up the past or living lies
What hurts, late-offered amends or broken goodbyes
For a victim, how long makes it too late to apologize?
Male-privileged obsession is just intimidation in disguise
So, years later, here’s the truth that only matters now
The important thing I hope I one day get to say to you
If allowed, I have random chance and courage to do
Psyche, you deserved better than I ever gave to you
My selfish words and actions burned our bridges
There aren’t any good reasons you should forgive
’Sides, justifying turns into gaslighting before long
I’ll move along, just sorry that I hurt you. I was wrong
5.4.20 - #coronavirus2020 VIII
I miss my wife. I hate it when she’s gone.
Sounds like the lines of a country-western song.
She’s on the road with the girl, again. I’m alone
On the couch, eating feelings and worrying about
All that might go wrong. Even the dog is gone.
Before she left, she hugged me tight and whispered,
“I promise to keep this marriage safe.”
Even though I don’t want to, I wonder,
The inner demons start to play
I worry that she’d rather be in other company
Though she’s the one who begged me to stay.
I want to believe her so bad, I need to
What other choice do I have?
I love her, let her lie, let her go, live a lie?
We hope for something better to grow
Dressed the wounds and sank down below
Layers of sheets and tree, fog and breeze
Even if it hurts, even if it’s the worst outcome
Of a million ways I can see our story going
At least for me, it was worth it to know
Love deep enough to get hurt, live through it
Do no wrong, try to pass no judgment
Tell them you love them, though the hurt shows
Be a better man, do the best you can
Let them know you love them, every time they go.
Anyone else scared out of their mind about how bad it’s gonna be by June? Asian killer bees, a likely explosion of pandemic cases in Georgia. People out like everything’s fine, not wearing masks. In a few weeks… Jesus. It worries me. Seems like the worst possible sci-fi plot.
I think my money is now on “Rushed Vaccine Causes Zombification,” at this point. Or we go to war with China over the lie of who manufactured the virus? That puts the Red Dawn scenario at play. But I’m lucky, able to arm-chair speculate from the relative safety of a back porch. Crickets are in the background. Some people aren’t so lucky. The virus is ravaging minorities at a savagely disproportionate rate, evidence of a medical system in need of desperate and complete reform.
Maybe it’s the fatalist in me, but I’m trying to make sure I tell my family I love them. Even when things hurt. Even when they hurt.
3.16.20 - #corona2020 II
I realized, only recently, how poorly I do with internal anxiety
There’s a train, running away, in my head sometimes
If I try, stay busy, maybe the brakes may recover before
I reach the end of the bridge, the end of the world
First full real day of what seems like a real, new normal. Not that we would go out if we could, ‘cause we can’t afford it, but because this illness is a bad rollercoaster ride. We’re not sure if J and D have it, since there weren’t testing kits last week. They’re supposed to call the Georgia Board of Health or something, go through a questionnaire, to even qualify for a test. Right now we’re operating under a 14-day quarantine diagnosed as pneumonia for J, and a 5-day quarantine diagnosed as bronchitis for D. I feel fine, but there’s a tension in the air. We’re faced with the added anxieties of having nothing better to do than reflect on our own past terrors and nightmares. While we wait on referrals for therapists to work through the overloaded for-profit under-prepared American Health Care nightmare, the news outside gets worse and the future darkens a little.
So I went to the gym anyway. I need something besides working my way through the feedback notes on Gravity’s Reach in preparation for a May Writer’s Conference that likely could be cancelled. I’ve been working on the Robin Hood homage, and that’s been more fun. I also have to check grades, put together plans for next week (both planning for online or in-class delivery), and take care of three hurting people.
”We’re broken, but we’re not damaged goods.”
”We do the best we can.”
At least one thing I can pull, a few moments with the dog in the backyard watching her play before she spent hours by my side while I wrote.
That’s the career I want, where I can spend my days giving head scratches while writing the next story.
