Your Calls

 

Oh, this? This is the hole you gave me.

It's from when you opened my chest cavity wth a shotgun blast. 

It's nothing special, and it doesn't need any dressing. See? Ay, but a scratch! 

Maybe an infection will clear it away. 

It even hurts to breathe, but who needs air? 

It's that stinging pain -- the kind I get when I scrape my knuckles across the ground because I don't know which way I'm going and I forgot how to use my spine. 

It's that kind of pain that rolls like thunder through all the fibers of my muscles, making waves from my bones to my tongue. 

It all comes out as a fury, only to leave behind withered skin and a sinking sadness that laps over the wound like small waves at low tide. 

My mind twists and pulses in agonizing defeat because I can't be present like Eckhart Tolle asks and I can't be free like those preachers say. 

But see, it doesn't need dressing. I'll be fine. 

People don't ask me about it, in the same way many people don't ask someone missing a limb how that came to be their life. 

It makes people double up with pleasantries. "You look good! How are you!" 

And that's never their actual question. 

And of course I don't want to talk about it with them because they see the hole and I've already explained it. And I want to be a good friend and keep all my blood to myself. 

So I go to therapy. I sit in a small office with a down pillow on my lap, plucking the soft, white feathers out of microscopic holes and then rub the cosmos-created velvet over my fingers. 

These fucking feathers aren't needle and thread, and neither is this nice, licensed man who patiently listens to me as I bleed out all over the office. 

But see, it's really fine. I don't need any gauze or anything. 

This pain becomes so regular that it goes in and out of a warm numbing underneath my sternum.

It's a heart attack all day, then like a hunter who startles its prey, it calms down back into the blind to wait. 

This right here, this is the shotgun blast that hasn't killed me yet.

I'll be fine. It is but a scratch, but --

A transfusion would be nice. 

A transfusion would be...