headchecks

you try to overwrite him with someone else— a different man.

(you even tried a woman in an feeble attempt to be normal)

… it will never work.

your memory of him is hazy compressed and saved as a jpeg screenshotted and cropped it’s half noise and half effigy

all those hits, all those concussions, those little deaths you can’t really remember what he was actually like … but you remember what you wanted him to be.

you wanted him to be great you believed in him maybe he could’ve played in the AHL … if he was a little taller.

you can’t bring yourself to hate him, i mean, it makes sense those hopes for him … were hopes for yourself.

i know it hurts. … it's supposed to.

he still takes up too much space in your mind. you think about deleting it, replacing it … but you can’t.

it would be stupid to try and overwrite a part of yourself, anyways.

Laced up, my face is clear through the visor

There's something that's intoxicating about being in a locker room full of people with scars like mine

I think I'm still hungover.

It must have been the first goal I scored without being so scared of celebrating

My teammates – pat me on the head – embraced me – weren't afraid to touch me.

It must have been the first time I played as myself

It must have been the first time that all my teammates were on my side

earlier today, i put my skates on for the first time in 5 years

the tongue was stiff, my ankles tight, edges dull

no brakes, but i trusted myself that i wouldn't fall.

i’ve known you longer than i have known my real name

you’ve known me longer and i’ve forgotten your sins no matter.

it’s all the same

You feel comfortable for the first time in weeks. You may express yourself. You may say what’s on your mind.

It’s a false sense of security. The owner is watching. The manager is fuming.

He was treated unfairly. You sympathized with him. You’ve brought disgust unto yourself. You’ve chosen the wrong side.

Your mistake, your fault.

I saw you in my “Recommended Friends” on Facebook. You grew a beard. I think it’s handsome. It suits you. I wonder if you still have a baby face underneath. Probably.

I still look the same since we last spoke. Maybe a little bit more tired, a little bit fatter, and I wear glasses now, you know. You’d recognize me if you saw me, I think.

My mouse hovers over “Add Friend” and I notice you’re wearing your college jersey in your picture.

You did work for it. Hell, you got an EliteProspects profile. Your team seems to be doing pretty well. Are you doing well? My skates are gathering dust, while you must have gone through a few pairs since then.

I still remember that assist on your slapshot goal. I wasn’t credited for it, of course. But the celly was nice. You did wrap your arm around me, briefly, and I called you “baby”

For a moment, I imagined we could have been like how you imagined back then, when you took me ice skating for the first time, and bought me shitty ice cream.

Did we really change that much? At what point did we become so different?

I can’t remember what it was and I can’t pull up the old messages (since you did block me) but I cried for the whole day and called in sick the next.

I was so hysterical, your mom texted my mom, very concerned.

We were both 18, I think.

I don’t understand why you said that. I’m still the same person you asked out. I’m just… a little less girly since then. A little less palatable for your white teeth. I wasn’t tender enough. Not soft enough.

It hurt. It did. I hated it so much. I still had to skate beside you. I wanted to show you I could move on.

But I couldn’t.

You were the one who told me I should play hockey in the first place. You were the one who encouraged me to sign up, even though I didn’t grow up with the sport.

I cried in the locker room instead and left practice early.

I stare at your profile picture for a little longer. You look happy. It’s been ten years since we met, about. Maybe five years since we became strangers again.

My cursor is still hovering over “Add Friend” and it’s one in the morning.

Your eyes are so fucking blue. The color burns on the back of my eyelids.

I shake my head and close my laptop instead.

I wish I could forget about you. I’ve written so many awful poems about you. You would hate them. You would think I’m a creep. Of course, I don’t like you anymore. Don’t worry about that. You broke my heart, after all.

But you did like me first.

who knew that buying me shitty ice cream that one time eight years ago would still affect me like this? we were barely teenagers then

i genuinely think you have altered my brain chemistry. i wonder if you even remember me now, though.

how funny, how self-important could i be? who fucking cares anymore?

i hate you.

i hear a song and i think of you. i don’t even remember what you actually look like at this point. i have no idea where you are now.

it’s like shoving pebbles into my ears. sand stuck to my asshole.

it’s entirely possible we’ve walked right past each other, without blinking… but i think if i did see you,

i might stare a little too long,

and think of what might’ve been

it's strange to look back on my memories,

my feelings,

my old headchecks.

i wonder if Theseus considered himself

the same man

throughout his own lifetime

the haze breaks through itself,

filling my chest,

weighing my shoulders.

the fog wants to roll in

to tuck in the bay.

but my bridge lays naked,

steel and concrete weeping;

the clarity unwelcome