I Don't Know How to Come Back From This

He didn't even leave a note.

Just his boots by the door

and a cold stillness

that settles in the bones of the

house like black mold.

I should have known. 

I should have seen.

His silence was not peace..

It was his storm, packing 

the bags.

He laughed through his teeth,

well into a soft fake smile.

Yet his emerald eyes, 

nothing of joy.

He gave his jackets to strangers

and friends alike. 

I never bothered to ask why

because he was kind like that. 

The world made him wear armor

that he did not choose.

The crushing "BE A MAN" 

always thrusted at him.

Could have not been any softer

than the ice that was glass he swallowed.

He kept his smile strong.

As though his tears were a sign of 

weakness to me. 

No - they were warning signs.

Red flags. 

That I missed.

And now?

Now it am curled up in his

warm chair, just like he got up for

a moment and will be coming

to fight me for the seat.

But I know, now, he isn't coming 

back to fight me for the warmth.

I scream in so many places..

No one hears..

Bathroom stalls. 

Parked cars.

Gas station parking lots at 3 a.m.

Grief is like rot - silent and stinking...

People, all say to me, "sorry for your loss"

like I misplaced my keys, not him.

Like he is somewhere I will find him again

if I just wipe my crying eyes, just to look.

But he is gone.

So I fake it.

Hold small talk in my mouth like vomit.

I laugh when I told. 

Show up.

clock into work,

wave at people who will never know.

I watched the strongest man I knew

break in a way that no one ever saw coming.

And all I can do now, 

is warn them all.

Tell them there are signs.

Don't you ever joke about killing yourself.

It isn't cute.

Don't ignore those who always say they are "fine"

or "good".

Don't let go of them because if you watch just

a little while longer, you will see how they

flinch at their own reflections.

Words are knives.

Crowds can be quicksand.

And some people don't know how to fight 

back.

See I bury him over and over again in my grief..

every morning -

with my coffee

with my fake smiles to all

with the silence I hold deep within myself.

No one questions.

You don't come back from this. 

You just carry it. 

Like the tiny pebbles in your shoes.

and the heavy smoke in your lungs.

And God help the next person 

who thinks pain makes a man more noble.

I will, gladly, break that lie with my bare hands.

For him.

For me. 

For every man still breathing here,

who thinks no one would ever notice 

if he left this earth.