“The boy is fragile, broken—broke himself—broke everything. I asked him why he did it. He said because the world was unlivable. He said it was unlovable, 
but I think he meant himself.” – Brenna Yovanoff

“Push, pull, shove me, to that end we both know is there
Cheat, steal, cut me, when we both know you don’t care
Lie, prey, vex me, the broken windshield will show
Anger, pain, crush me, glass in bloodied water glows” 

Love so strong and innocent dies betrayed, the broken windshield another victim of your lies. My knuckles are wounded from defending your evil intentions. The glass buried in them, kept there by darkened bloody scabs, seeps out, along with your memory, in tainted fluids of slow death. This windshield isn’t the first broken by fists of rage fueled with shattered feelings from your childish manipulations of my undefiled affection. A little grin of amusement decorates your facade, you’re entertained by the show you’ve created, and with that smirk, you settle back to wait. Playing the innocent, you set the trap for another Savior to ride in on his white horse, a chivalrous fool coming to your feigned rescue. Like you, the windshield is easily replaced, it’s easy to buy inanimate cold things.

What if?

 “You have not lived today until you have done something for someone who can never repay you.” ― John Bunyan
What if I discovered the reason I’m alive is to help you? And without that help, my life’s a waste, worthless crumpled paper blowing down an alley. What if the traps laid were my needs or an exploration of my feelings in an egocentric circle of lost opportunity? What if I looked for ways I can help? If I’m not here for you, then I must depart, this life has nothing to offer me alone. If there is no “we” on this earth, no family to belong to, no greater good to serve, then I’ll lay down in peace and give up my breath. What if my dying breath were given for a resuscitation of your life? Is this the greatest gift? To give my life for you? I’ve heard this sacrifice called the greatest love, do I pursue this divine commission? What if we knew that our ways were best fulfilled in this purpose, holding each other above the water? What if my strength grew with helping you, and shrank if I used it to tread the water of my desire? Then with a great heave I’ll lift you up, putting you on my shoulders to breathe, for your breath has become mine, and mine yours, and this is what we call living. 

Also Published in Broowaha Magazine