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

Discuss...

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

Discuss...

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

Discuss...

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

Discuss...

(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.

Discuss...

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

Discuss...

the tongue was stiff, my ankles tight, edges dull

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

Discuss...

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

it’s all the same

Discuss...

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.

Discuss...

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.

Discuss...