Bruiser

I did not choose this gift.

I cannot help what I am, what I do,

I do not choose to rob others of their pain.

At best I can mold it, and even direct it,

Use it myself, before others use me.

I have made that my secret aim,

But confessing to Brontë,

Scars me like acid rain,

Leaving me to drown.

In its rising waters,

As she leaves.

And in that moment,

I see my own glaring truth,

Her gift to me, there in her eyes.

You brought us a new light,

But that light is false.

So is darkness better

Than a heartfelt lie?

There’s a rift,

Deep in my soul,

Between what I wish

And what I’ve become,

The anger begins to swell,

All my own and no one else’s,

At the stark, undeniable truth,

That my brand of healing

Brings only misery.

I am defeated,

I am lost.

She leaves,

The door slams,

Mobilizing Tennyson.

He comes down to my room,

To find out what he has missed.

He sees my ruined back, chest, and arms.

“Put on your shirt,” he says, and tosses it to me.

“Sorry,” I tell him, “I know I look horrible.”

“No,” he says, “it’s cold, that’s all.”

I slip the shirt back on.

“Thanks.”

I have to admit

Tennyson has changed

Since the first time I met him,

For the better, but also for the worse.

He’s much kinder, more honorable somehow,

But humbled by an addiction to painkillers.

We both know that painkiller is me.

“She hates me now,” I tell him.

“She’ll get over it,” he says,

“I’ll go after her—”

“No!” he says,

And in his eyes

A certain disquiet

A distinct desperation

At the thought of me leaving,

Clear evidence of the addiction.

And he looks away, hiding his shame,

But I’m more ashamed than him,

Because I made him this way.

I am not what he needs.

Not what they need.

“So,” he asks,

“Will you stay?”

Meaning much more

Than just tonight or tomorrow,

Or this week or next. “Should I?”

He looks away again. “Yes…,” he says, then adds,

“But I don’t know if it’s really me talking.”

I nod, an understanding reached.

“I’m going out to find her,

To make things right,”

Or at least

Properly wrong.

Alone with my own thoughts,

Searching through a chilly night,

Full of memories….

When I was five years old,

I spent a week in the hospital

For three broken ribs and internal bleeding,

Because our dog was hit by a car,

And I took his pain away.

Mom had to lie and say I was the one hit,

And as I lay there recovering, she told me a story

About the world’s greatest warrior,

Who could take on armies single-handedly.

The gods feared his power,

So they gave him a diamond sword,

Which fused to his fighting hand.

And every blow he struck

Would come back upon him.

Until he realized that the only way to win

Was not to fight.

When I came home from the hospital,

Our dog went to a good family,

And we never had a pet again.

Where would Brontë go,

To be alone with her thoughts?

One more place to look…

When I was eight, my teacher had pneumonia

Only she never knew.

My fever climbed so high,

I hallucinated;

My fingers were glittering diamond daggers

That everyone wanted for themselves.

Once my fever broke,

My mother and I had a serious talk.

“Guard your heart,” she told me.

“That is your hero’s sword.”

I approach the pool,

There’s something in the water,

And it’s not moving….

I was ten at my mother’s funeral.

Uncle Hoyt stood beside Cody and me,

His arm was on my shoulder,

He told me it would all be all right,

He would always take care of us,

He would protect us,

Protect me,

And I loved him for it.

I almost died a month later

From a kidney infection that began as Uncle Hoyt’s

And quickly became mine instead.

That’s how he learned what I can do,

That’s when his drinking became a problem,

Because his guilt consumed him,

And he resented me for it.

Brontë’s in the pool,

Facedown in the cold water.

I can’t stop screaming.

How long?

I heard a splash as I approached.

Didn’t I? Didn’t I?

And the water’s still rippling.

Maybe there’s time.

I lean over the edge,

But she’s too far away,

“Help! Somebody help!”

But there’s no one but me.

And I can’t swim.

Denying my fear,

I leap into deadly water.

My legs kick, my arms flail,

My head bobs down, then up, then down,

Coughing, spitting in the face of gravity.

I kick off my shoes,

And somehow I stay afloat,

By sheer force of will.

Closer now,

Almost there,

She’s just out of reach.

My head stays above water,

But something’s wrong.

Why is my chest so heavy?

Why can’t I breathe?

If I’m finally swimming, why can’t I breathe?

And suddenly I know!

Take it away.

Take it away, boy.

This is your purpose.

Take it away!

Pulling you from the water won’t be enough, but I can defy your fate,

I have one last gift for you, Brontë, and it’s one you can’t refuse.

Inches from you now, I stop kicking, let my arms relax.

They drift down to my side and the sword falls free,

Because the only way to win is not to fight.

And I’m ready for victory’s embrace.

She starts to revive, I start to let go,

Giving myself to the waters,

Sinking deeper, deeper,

Faceup, eyes open,

Eyes on her.

Then she stirs the shimmering interface between life and death,

and she finally climbs out of the pool far, far above.

She doesn’t see me; she doesn’t know,

And it can be no other way.

I feel no wounds now,

Or any stolen pain.

All that remains

Is gratitude

And pure

Perfect

Joy.