Wednesday
“Crazy how those old wounds will rip open again on a random Wednesday”
…but at least i know what they are
hockey, faggotry, mental illness
“Crazy how those old wounds will rip open again on a random Wednesday”
…but at least i know what they are
no good place you could kill yourself in dublin / no good place ye can kill yeself in dublin
it’s flat and there’s no cliffs / the luas doesn’t run that late
the buildings don’t go that high / and i don’t want to bother the street cleaners anyways
in the Bay it’s just the end stop / while it’s greater here in Éire
i can impale myself on the deteriorating ice with a hockey stick / can’t really do that much with the spire
someone spit on my hockey bag in dublin / perhaps i look too much like a fag for dublin
the high school hockey finals are on / some fucking gaelic sport i don’t care about is on
but the bodies are similar / it reminded me of the locker room
it hurt / it hurt / it hurt / it hurt
what didn’t i know? what was behind that? i wasn’t at the table. i didn’t feel welcome. i was scared. i didn’t want to be hurt.
i scored an assist. passed back blue line slap
should’ve been a primary assist they didn’t count it in my stats zeros still across the board barely a blip
it’s fine. he’s the one who had broken my heart. i assisted.
what was i supposed to do? not pass the puck?
…
maya, sing loudly, speak up because clearly i can’t
i am the third car of an eight car train on the blue line towards daly city
many people stumble in and out of my doors every day clumsy and fragile they sometimes kill themselves upon my path
i have seen children grow up, i have seen men cry, i have seen the cruelty of it all
across the bar, across the table, across the 580 and 680 and a cross hanging from a neck
i impulsively ask you for a drink, and you cup your hands and let me lap it up
i gaze at you and think about what we could write together if our songs were different
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.