It’s not fair. It’s not our fault.

We have no say in our own lives.

We’re living a fairy tale someone else wrote.

We dread it.

We run from it.

But destiny still arrives.

We are thinkers, not talkers.

We are problems, not solutions.

We are heroes of the dark, villains with a spark.

The heroes hate us.

Because that’s their story.

They hate us to fill the chapters of a hero’s life.

Because in the story hating a villain makes them feel like heroes.

How many villains suffer in silence?

’Cause real villains don’t cry.

It’s not enough to close our eyes.

Because our scripts are embedded into our minds.

And we follow them until we die.

You said you like it when I’m nervous. You said I’m cute with my hands covering my laugh and my fingers twirling my hair. You said you feel less awkward when I glance awkwardly into my own lap. You loved that aching squirm that helped you cover your own insecurities. You hated when you’d inhale a line and I’d sit calm and patient. Indifferent to your flaws. You liked to offer me drinks in front of everyone, knowing full well I’d say no. Knowing full well that everyone would keep offering all night. You liked to make me walk in front of you, stumbling over my steps the way I stumble over the words that fall from me into you. You didn’t want to lead the way, afraid you might be the one to trip. You’d leave me at parties to see how long I’d wait. And lay claim to me in front of large groups so you could tell me later how you didn’t mean it. And the worst would come when my discomfort would leave you vulnerable. I’d spend all night vomiting up delicate caterpillars. And you would take fists and boots to snuff out their prickly lives. And through power hungry fits, you’d confess your secrets late into the night. And as I devoured them, feeding myself into butterflies, your thoughts would become poisoned bile at the realization. And you would beg for me to hand over my safe-haven cocoons. Terrified that I may be more comfortable than you. Terrified that I may be growing while you sat in front of me with your guts on display. So you spin your spider web across my body, wrapped in carefully-crafted blankets of silk. And when I emerged, you burst forth from eggs and laid waste to my thriving. Because you like it when I’m nervous.

I wanted to title this—Because if I knew that your mom was sleeping with everyone or that your girlfriend had cheated or had faked a pregnancy or that your addiction was spiraling out of control and you were scared of losing your kid, then who really had the power?

But that seemed a bit wordy and didn’t even begin to cover it.

I was fallin’ down to Earth at a gawd-awful speed through the clear blue skies of Zephyrhills, having made my peace with Jesus, knowing – finally – how the universe began and how it would end:

“Helluva lot of good that’ll do me now,” I thought.

A six-pack of things crossed my mind, including: who would get my Frank Sinatra album collection, where did I park my car, would my sainted Mother have to ID my crushed body, how would my Nets, Mets, and Jets do next year, would anybody miss me when I was gone, and, most importantly: “Whatever happened to Arch Deal?”

Why Deal?

In June, 1975, Tampa Bay TV newsman Arch Deal jumped out of a small airplane at 3,000 feet over nearby Cypress Gardens and his main chute didn’t open. At 2,000 feet, his reserve chute failed to deploy. At zero feet, he hit the ground – yet managed to survive, except for his broken neck, six broken ribs, separated pelvis and hundreds of contusions, lacerations, and bruises.

I was in a similar situation – but without the chute.

Would I survive?

The spinning, churning, and turning was taking its toll. I was fadin’ in and out. I’d managed not to look down by keeping my eyes closed as long as I could. When I finally opened them (wide) and stared at Mother Earth, I saw (floating in the sky) what looked like a large, eerily thin, crown of thorns.

A sign from God?

Then the crown slowly transformed; first, to a winking eye; then, to a butterfly.

My last sane thought was of the card game that dealt me this death drop.

“Never play poker in an airplane when you’re out of money,” I thought. “Never.”

Wish somebody had told me that sooner.

The rushin’ wind, like an old train, was blastin’ (unmercifully) through the dark, moist caverns my brain. The last functional thought I had was a joke I heard as a kid. The punch line:

“It’s not the drop that kills ya . . . it’s the sudden stop.”

I have always been enamoured with the endless blue of a summer sky, the white cotton puffs of clouds, the blinding white sun. So it seems fitting that these will be the last things I'll see as I fall with my back to the endless earth, my unshielded eyes forced open by wind.

I suppose that now I should be praying to some sort of God, but I can’t seem to move onto the next thought- I’m past Panic Mode and onto some sort of paralyzing indifference- the sky seems to be holding me fast in this one, infinite moment.

I close my eyes

.

I am a child again running through the woods and the trees don’t end I am staring straight up instead of down at my feet where roots trip me but nothing can stop me I’m invincible I cannot fall I cannot die it’s nothing but me and the lines of trees and the sky the sky the sky and now for an instance I am everything I am the sun and the moon and the stars and gravity cannot hold me any longer I am not falling but flying

.

I open my eyes. The sky is so beautiful so beautiful so beauti

I overheard a senior

telling the teacher what

his big project would be

for the whole year.

I admired this kid a lot,

I had heard him recite poetry

and it was good poetry too.

So I listened to what he was saying

He said

"It has to be on an issue in today's society.

I'm doing it on Toxic Masculinity."

And ever since he said that, I've been thinking.

Thinking, because what defines a man?

Is it sleeping with a woman?

Is it having a dick?

Is it showing no emotion?

Is it having muscles and working out at the gym?

Is it anything?

Is it clothes?

Really, I started thinking.

Is there a way to define a man at all?

If someone wants to be a man,

feels like a man,

then they are a man, regardless of actions or attire.

So what defines masculine?

To me, masculine

is just a different form of word

in the Spanish language.

Ella versus El.

Las verses Los.

What difference

does it make?

One single letter,

for the most part.

All I want today

is more strokes of your breath

against my face as you touch

my life and leave indented mark.

I need to unclench my fists

and hold you close – a broken

winged bird but intact heart.

Let me barricade the whispers

of dark night when your race

is ended as I shed damp tears

of yesterday wanting you

to beat the odds and climb

the highest mountain,

borrowing the shades of life,

straightening limp blades of grass.

When the hidden shadows sigh

a soft release, let me murmur

reluctant acceptance of loss

as soul filters into the night

streaming away from me as

you remain forever in my essence

Give me the strength to endure

the somber silence and allow you

to breathe deeply of the sea,

to be free and fill your lungs,

memories diving beneath surface

but floating above and close to me.

All I really want is to share

another day with you.