Apologies

Sorry folks... 

Been really busy, but things have been pretty good overall. I'll be posting more when the mood strikes me. The winter seems to be the best time to get some writing and editing done, and I'll be doing more and more as the months drag on. 

If you're still here, thank you.

Be well. 

~Torres

Door, Locked

In the morning

there was still paint

on my fingers

from fixing the door

frame

with super glue.

Last night,

I kicked it open

when you locked me out of the bedroom.

I only wanted to talk.

I still don't know what the fight was about.

And I'm too flawed to understand.

I think it's the fear

of being locked out.

Locked out of parent arguments.

Locked out of The Perini brothers' tree fort.

Locked out of feeling my own torrent emotions

for fear of having my masculinity questioned.

Locked out of too many bedrooms before.

I won't let it happen in my house. 

I won't let it happen in my bedroom.

I know that this won't open a door of conversation.

But in my mammalian brain,

it's a start.

One. Less. Locked. Door.

Strong women shout "No more glass ceilings."

The traumatized man sobs "No more locked doors."

So my foot rang the bell.

In one swift--albeit impressive--kick. 

I fixed the door lock

while you took a shower

and shed silent Irish tears.

This morning,

I cried in the bathroom. 

Last night I cried with a scotch in hand

in the kitchen after it happened.

I got to work

and cried in the cafeteria

while the children walked to class.

I didn't hit you.

But I scared you.

And that scared me.

I can't picture 

a world without you.

But I will gladly kick open a thousand doors.

Just to see your autumn eyes,

and your autumn hair,

and feel my autumn darkness

spill from my soul

and engulf our house.

Sometimes, I think it's the world that's haunted.

And not us.

And we're victims of the horror.

The horror of too much work.

The horror of too little money.

The horror of not having immortality 

to the point that death seems like a release.

That night,

I waited for you to fall asleep

and held your hand.

I learned my lesson,

and spent the next day

picking paint from my fingernails.

Searching for a Former Clarity

I'm getting to that age where people talk about their "Good Old Days", and then someone will immediately say "Man, if I could go back..." 

Personally, I've never had the urge. And I know why.

I look at my life in stages. Like a grand play that I was lucky enough to survive (up until this point, of course). But the struggle and hardships that came out of those periods--some of which don't hold a candle to what most experience--are things that I would not like to relive. 

First and foremost--despite any embarrassing moments, missed opportunities, and the countless hours of depression that seemed to seep out of ever pore-- I would hate to relieve the journey I had to take to find my voice. 

As a writer, you have one thing that you can fall back on when you're not letting the things you love kill you every day. You have a voice. One that seems to sync and fuse the brain, heart, and guts together to actively create your works and, ultimately, save you from yourself.

My voice has always been my salvation. Without it, I am nothing. It has always been a noble paladin with a lit torch, locating the demons in the darkness of my imagination, bringing them to light, and then spilling their blood across white pages. 

I am but her humble narrator. And, even now, it's comforting to write about her.

I'm at a low point this morning. I'll snap out of it soon. She'll find me again when she's ready. Then, my muse and I will dance once again. 

Cheers,

~Torres