The Burn

It always starts off slow. Eyes glassy from holding back tears, taking measured breaths in an attempt to slow my pounding heart. The burn that spreads across my chest. 

I never asked for the moon and the stars, just a hand to hold and someone who would choose me. But the wrong people can make the simplest things feel like the most mystical treasures from the farthest, most unreachable corners of the galaxy. I am your prodigal daughter screaming into your perfectly crafted void. 

You gave me this voice, why does it only echo?

How many times had you seen me cry myself to sleep? I always felt you there but completely silent. Neither condemning nor comforting. 

I thought I had done everything right but my existence feels like punishment. If I was made to love and be loved why do you see fit to have me be alone? Why was I made to be wasted? 

Everyone has this fairytale lens in which they see you. If I fold my hands respectfully, ask politely, and click my heels three times; I’ll be granted my heart’s desires simply because I believed. But even when I was younger I never wanted to see you as merely the granter of wishes. I wanted to trust that you knew what was best for me. 

But recent years have pulled out a fight in me that I would have thought unimaginable in my youth. I never once had the delusion that my life would be easy, but this prolonged and painful struggle has left me fragile and exhausted in ways I’m normally too embarrassed to admit. 

Over and over I had to endure horrible mistreatment by those who had once been closest to me. Everyone who engages in this abusive pattern of behavior seems exempt from Karma. I miss the days when kindness was an even exchange. Now I create it just to give it away. My biggest regret was that I didn’t move on fast enough. Surely my lesson cannot be to isolate myself, but to go on fighting feels hopeless. I have all too often had to muddle through those dark days when the nicest person was often a stranger. 

So here again I stand, trying to pull the daggers from my heart. 

You gave me this will, why does it push me from you? 

You gave me this heart, why does it crack so easily? 

You gave me all this love, which I am unable to contain, yet has no route to take.

I know you don’t play favorites. I just wanted to feel like I mattered. Like this suffering has a purpose. 

My eyes glassy from holding back tears, taking measured breaths in an attempt to slow my pounding heart. The familiar burn that spreads across my chest.

I am your prodigal daughter standing on the edge of your perfectly crafted void. 

The Crow’s Soul Weighs Heavy

Growing up I had my favorite yard birds. The cardinal and the blue jay were obvious favorites because of their bright colors, but the crow was appreciated for reasons that were different and far more profound. 

The backyard of our first house was large and square-shaped. Several old trees peppered the back yards throughout the neighborhood. I loved playing outside. At a very young age I caught a small black racer with my bare hands, fed peanuts to the squirrels, and learned how to trap and release frogs. My father always had a few bird feeders overflowing with seeds and took it upon himself to feed the local stray cats. The yard was always buzzing with activity. 

One day when I was about six years old I was standing in the dining room when my father came in from the back yard. The heavy wooden door creaked as he pushed through. Annoyed but not surprised he said “One of the cats caught a crow” as he walked past me.  

Curious, I ventured outside. 

I never saw the cat or the crow she caught, but I was taken aback by what I heard. 

A chorus of crows, all coming from the same tree. Loud and panicky, yet unmistakably focused. The sun was low in the afternoon sky behind the tree. Beams of light poking through the leaves illuminated the silhouettes of fluttering wings and open beaks. I had never seen so many crows in one tree. I had never heard such collective chaos. I was used to the typical calls of crows, but this was entirely different. 

“They’re saying goodbye” I whispered to myself in astonishment.

I stood there for several minutes, watching, listening. Right on the edge of the concrete slab; I never crossed into the grass. As intrigued as I was moving in to get a closer look felt like intrusion. This was a ritual. 

They were experiencing sorrow.

They understood what they had lost. 

They gathered to mourn the dead. 

Young as I was, I knew about death. A short time prior to this my mother’s dog got hit by a car. Patches was older and had been a part of the family long before I was born. My parents had friends over and it was dark out when they left. We were all in the driveway and everyone was exchanging small talk when patches got out and ran into the street. A young man driving by hit her. I remember the commotion as everyone rushed down to the street. The young man felt terrible. He said he didn’t see her until it was too late and apologized. My parents held no grudge. They knew she was old and it was dark out. They moved her up the driveway closer to the house. 

She was completely still. A small trickle of blood was slowly moving from behind her head. My mother, crying, knelt down beside her gently petting the soft, curly fur around her shoulder. She was already gone, but my mother still wanted to say goodbye. 

I had watched my mother perform the ritual of letting go. I could recognize it when I saw the crows do it. What I found so compelling about the crows was that it was the first time I witnessed a group of animals expressing grief. 

Growing up Catholic I was often confronted with people who claimed that animals didn’t have souls. When I was younger I didn’t know what to say so I would just nod politely. But I never believed that. Even if I couldn’t define it I knew something was there. Something bigger. Something magic and profound. The crows could feel it too. 

Crashing Down

You didn’t realize I could see your soul.

Lost and mangled,

Resentful thoughts with a mouth full of excuses. 

People like you love to be in control. 

You crave it because you think it gives you power.

But you don’t know what it’s like to harness the real thing. 

Power that comes from the inside.

The kind that burns through your chest. 

Purpose through the chaos. 

I will not be held back. 

I left you a long time ago,

All alone with your bad decisions. 

Curious, you ask “Do you ever miss me?”

The answer comes swift and sure.

“I miss the person you could have become”

I came back to watch your world come crashing down.

You will rise above but only as ashes,

A warning to others.

Fencing

My friend Tink had been part of a group called the Society for Creative Anachronism and had been trying to get me to go to events for years. I was always interested, but between DRIP and my day job I never had the time. It wasn’t until her wedding at the end of December 2017 that I got introduced to Cuan, another friend of hers who participates in the SCA. He spoke fondly of the activities in great detail. He mentioned the fighter practice on Wednesday nights which he and Tink both did, and also of the art nights on Thursday nights. He messaged me all the information and encouraged me to go. 

Unfortunately, January got off to a rough start which included the announcement that DRIP would be closing its doors. The closing process became my focus and it wasn’t until the dust settled clear into February that I showed up to a Wednesday night fighter practice. 

I had been a part of DRIP for ten years when the doors closed. It had been such a major component of my life that it felt odd to have it gone so abruptly. I had been wanting to rebuild my social life as well. The previous two years had been so emotionally painful that I spent a significant amount of time alone. I was trying to get out more. 

When I got to the park the group was easy to spot. Amidst the kids soccer, basketball games and tennis matches this group was dressed in armor and swing swords. I searched for Tink and Cuan so I could be with someone I knew but to my horror neither one had shown up that night. I was standing on the edge of the field in shorts and flip flops, looking hopelessly lost. 

It was Deb who spotted me first and took me under her wing. She introduced herself and said she had come to watch her husband Val. He was a heavy fighter but had recently had shoulder surgery and she wanted to make sure he didn’t hurt himself. She explained how the fighters were split into two groups: heavy and rapier. The heavy fighters wore full metal suits of armor and held large swords and shields. The rapier fighters wore lighter clothing and typically only carried a single, smaller sword. 

Deb helped me get familiar with the background of the SCA as we watched the heavy fighters. The loud cracks of the weapons hitting the metal armor commanded our attention. It’s not every day I get to see a Medieval battle in a park. 

I was lost in the moment when I got approached by two of the women from the rapier side. They cheerfully introduced themselves and asked if I’d like to learn fencing. I politely declined their invitation. I had no armor, no weapon, and I had only come to watch. The girls insisted and Deb nudged me. “Oh, come on” she smiled “playing with swords is fun!” 

The girls lead me across the field and put me right in front of Tim. Tim was charge of the rapier side. He was man in his mid-forties, with eyes full of kindness, and incredibly knowledgeable. He gave me one of his swords and intense beginner lesson. I learned how to hold it properly, basics of the footwork, and the mechanics of leverage. He would pause periodically to apologize for bombarding me with all this information. “That’s ok” I reassured him “this is really interesting. I didn’t realize there was so much to it!”

I was hooked. 

Over the next several weeks I kept coming back. I loved the historical element as well. There was German fencing and Italian fencing. Tim favored the German style, but there were other instructors who knew the Italian style. Everybody learned and shared techniques. I enjoyed asking people why they gravitated towards a particular time period or style of fencing. The history of how fencing developed was interesting as well. I was slowing learning how to move, how to balance the sword while moving my feet correctly. 

Tim and I practicing. Photo by Amber Cruz-Martinez.

After a while I met up with Tink for her birthday and told her how much I loved the group. She was shocked I got into the rapier side, she had assumed I would have done the heavy fighting like her and Cuan. When she asked how I ended up in rapier I laughed and told her “they literally asked me first”.

I learned to show up in sneakers and pants. Even though the blades were dull and corked at the tip you still had to be covered. Tim always had a spare sword, helmet, and gloves for me. First was practice drills, then the fighting. Since I was so new I mostly stuck with drills. It defiantly gave my arms a work out and I found myself switching hands often. 

I would go to work at the bank and amuse my coworkers with fencing stories. They already knew I had three cats and enjoyed watching documentaries, this was definitely pushing me farther into left field. They would lovingly tease me to be more normal. 

Typical fight nights are usually followed by a group trip to Gators Dockside for drinks and snacks. It was on one of these trips that I joked with Tim about my love of documentaries and how my coworkers thought I should be more normal. Tim smiled and said “You’ll fit in with us fine. You can be as strange as you want to be”. 

I know in my heart my coworkers meant no harm, we love to tease each other back and forth. But I can’t tell you how good it felt to have my uniqueness accepted and encouraged. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I had been reassured like that. Seen and appreciated for who I am. I felt like I had waited years for that. 

Tim was booked to teach some fencing classes at the Mermaid’s Faire in July. It was a symposium featuring several fighting and clothing workshops near Tampa. He encouraged me to go since I had never been to an event outside of the fighter practices. There was one catch, I needed some garb to wear. 

Most people in the SCA had a persona, a name and cultural background for the person they chose to be, and the historical clothing to match. Tim’s persona was 16th century German, but I hadn’t settled on anything specific yet. I had only fought in yoga pants and had nothing historically accurate to wear. In truth, historically most fencers were men, so today most of the female fencers wear masculine styled clothing. Luckily, I had met Sibilla a few weeks prior and she was the first female fencer I had seen fight in a dress. Luckier still, she makes her own garb and is close to my size. She sent me Norwegian garb to wear just to get me through the first event. The bag was stuffed with clothing and I couldn’t wait to try it on. 

The Norwegian garb came with a dress and an apron. The stitching was incredible and the detail was lovely! Unfortunately, the dress was a little snug and I couldn’t fit the apron over it comfortably. I became worried. This was my first event and I wanted to look the part. I was afraid I would be judged harshly for not wearing the entire outfit. Not to mention the only shoes I had to wear were glaringly modern sneakers. I messaged Tim and asked if he could bring one of his spare tunics. I figured that way I’d at least have an option if the dress became too uncomfortable. 

Tim said he would bring the tunic and reassured me about the attire. He said that people would be understanding since I was so new, and told me to let him know if anyone gave me a hard time. He could see I was nervous and spent a great deal of time answering all my questions. I finally confided in him that I was going to be on my period during the event. I knew it was going to make me tired and moody and I didn’t want it to seem as though I didn’t want to go. 

He smiled knowingly, and reminded me that he has a wife and two daughters. “I know how it goes.” 

Still overcoming a little embarrassment, I smiled back. “I appreciate that, but please understand, I have a father and brother who have not always treated me kindly in that regard.”

Once more he reassured me that everything would be okay. 

The day of the event Tim drove myself and Lee, another fencer. Lee is quite the character. In our group Lee, at 59 years old, is one of the oldest fencers but certainly has one of the youngest souls. A self-described bullshitter with a twirled mustache, permanent glint of mischief in this eyes and full sized Spider-Man themed tattoo all over his back. He is one of the only people in our group who has no persona, doesn’t align himself with a particular style, or show much interest in the history of fencing. He just loves to poke people with swords. We spent a lot of the car ride listening to him regale us with stories of how he met his ex-wife, whom he is currently dating again. They were both photographers and he loves telling people that they meet while “shooting children”. He and his ex-wife/girlfriend also own three greyhounds and three ferrets.

Once we arrived we were delighted to find the the event was indoors. Most fencing events are outdoors, but it had a large enough space upstairs to accommodate the sword swinging. It was mid July so we were thrilled to be in the AC all day. 

As we walked up to the building Tim was greeted by a woman named Crissy. She was a kindly middle-aged woman who had known Tim for years through the SCA. I had never met her but she greeted me by name and ushered me over to her car. 

“You must be Melissa” she said cheerfully as she handed me a large bag stuffed with fabric. “Tim asked me to bring these for you to see if you wanted to wear them”.

I was confused but she went on to explain that Tim had messaged her the night before and asked if she could bring extra garb for me since the dress I’d borrowed might not fit. I thanked her and went to try on the clothes. In the end, the best fit was still the Norwegian dress I’d gotten from Sibilla, but I was so appreciative of Crissy for the alternatives. 

I found Tim a little later making trips to the car for his gear. “You didn’t tell me that you asked Crissy to bring extra clothing for me. That was so sweet! You didn’t have to do that!” 

Without missing a beat he replied “You said you had wanted to wear a dress, I wanted to make sure you had one”. 

The fencing classes were all very interesting and I got to meet at lot of wonderful instructors. Some classes were more historical while others focused on fighting techniques. Tim had brought a lot of historical fencing texts and it was interesting to see the centuries old illustrations that accompanied the explanations. In our fencing group we play for sport, not to kill. But back in the day it was quite the opposite. Matches were typically short since people were injured or killed quickly with the sharp blades. The pages of the book were filled with savage techniques, designed to win quickly and ruthlessly. Tim laughed at my shocked reaction to the often comically graphic illustrations. “Yeah, fencing was a lot different back then.” 

At one point in the day I got to fight Lee. It was a tough match. Lee is far more experienced, loves to bait opponents, and fights predominantly left-handed, while I fight mostly right. I took a few good hits from Lee before the match ended. I did about as good as I expected to. We were refereed by another instructor whom we’d only meet that day. After the match he approached me and said “I can tell you are new at this, but you’re not a timid fighter. That’s good!” I felt so encouraged. 

Amidst the shuffle of classes and events Tim would periodically check in on me. He learned the signs of when I was getting tired and would remind me to take breaks for snacks and meds. He introduced me to other members of the SCA, made sure I had the appropriate gear to fight in, and took care to make sure I sat with him during lunch. I never once felt out of place. 

Towards the end of the event I got Lee to take a picture of me in the dress. 

Photo by Lee Isbell.

He directed me to hold up my arms and turn my body. I had forgotten that he was a photographer. I laughed and told him that normally I’m the one taking pictures. It was a nice change to have a photographer take a photo of me. 

Once the event had finished most of us end up at the Coney Island Drive Inn for some food. The place became an unusual mixture of rednecks and people who looked like they had just left a Renaissance festival. We filled up on hotdogs and good conversations. 

Me, Lee, and Tim at the end of the event. It was so bright outside I didnt realize what Lee had done until I already took the photo. He offered to retake a more formal shot. “No” I laughed “This is perfect”.

The ride home was rainy and Tim told me and Lee about a time years ago when he went to a fencing event in Wisconsin. It was held in some old church building which resembled a castle. He was inside listening to a talk about fencing, and even though it had begun to snow there was a window that was cracked open. There were some people outside fencing and he could hear the sound of crunching snow and clanking swords in the distance as he was listening to the fencing lecture. He said that for a brief moment he’d felt like he had gone back in time. 

A few weeks later during practice I was working with Christian, another instructor who specializes in Italian fencing. He took one of his older spare swords and put it in my hand. He asked me how it felt. 

“I like it, it’s not too heavy and the handle feels good. It’s nice and smooth.” 

“Would you consider taking it as a long term loan?”

I was floored. A good sword is expensive. I’d been fencing for a while but I had always borrowed other people’s extra equipment. 

“What? Are you sure?”

Christian looked at me with the utmost sincerity. “I want you to be really good at this.”

My eyes welled up with tears. This was no small gesture. Christian had been to practice sporadically over the past few weeks. He had been supporting his girlfriend Deirdre, a fellow fencer and absolute sweetheart, through her breast cancer treatments. Although she was recovering well, the past few weeks had not been easy for them. For him to offer me a sword felt momentous. 

I struggled to find the right words until “I’ll take good care of it” finally fell out. 

“I know you will” he said confidently. 

Later that night Tim approached me. He could tell I’d been crying and asked if I was ok. I explained what Christian had done. 

“Ah” he said with a smile, relieved that I wasn’t injured.

I clutched the sword close to me. “I’m so glad I found you guys” I said as I wiped the tears off my cheeks. 

For the last few years I’d felt as though my most meaningful connections with men had been nothing but miserable failures. I’d lost a boyfriend, two friendships, been to two funerals, stalked by customers at my job, been horribly mistreated by potential partners, accosted by a boss and grabbed by a married coworker. I’d lost a lot of men I had cared for or trusted in a very short amount of time. 

But I’d gained so much through fencing. I got to be surrounded by men who loved learning and teaching. Men who were devoted to their partners and their children. Men who openly expressed kindness and compassion. And the women were rock stars too. Deb took me under her wing when I was new, Sibilla makes and fights in dresses, Crissy brought me extra clothes without even knowing me, and Deirdre wants to recover as fast as possible so she can fight again. 

I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by love. Love and the clanking of swords. 

Alpha

I’ve been working out here for the last four years. After my wife left I went back to school for biology. I barely passed. Sometimes I think the only reason I got this job was because I was the only one who applied. But I like it alright. I get to be outside and I don’t have to deal with people much.

Bob, the ranger who was showing me the ropes after I got hired said the lone female had come to the park about five months before me. She was a little smaller than the other Grey Wolves so they thought she was a juvenile at first. Now they think she might be a little older but they can’t be sure. They have never been able to tag her.  

They don’t think she was born in the park. She just showed up one day out of the blue. It didn’t take her long to become the alpha female of her own pack, but about two and a half years ago things went south. The winters have been harsher. Their prey started leaving the area earlier. Some members of the pack died, others migrated out, most broke off into smaller, scattered packs. She was normally alone after that. 

I thought she’d do what the others did, but she never left the area or joined another group. Sometimes I wouldn’t see her for a while but I knew she was out there. I’d still find her tracks every now and then. The right rear paw print was always the faintest. It must have been from an old injury. When you saw her you could barley tell she limped but her tracks gave away that she never put her full weight on it. 

I started calling her Alpha. Even though she didn’t have a pack you could tell she was an alpha female. Her ears were always erect, and she had this direct, almost confrontational, wide-eyed stare with her golden eyes. It was rare for a female to be without a pack, but after her original group disbanded she seemed to keep to herself. It was an odd trait for animal that evolved to survive working together. 

Even stranger was that she appeared to visit other packs. Occasionally, she’d be spotted with the prairie pack. She would play with the pups and sometimes participate in hunts with the other females. She was never threatened, or treated aggressively by the wolves in the pack. She was allowed to come and go peacefully. We had thought she was fully accepted by the pack but she would only stay with them one or two days at a time. Then she’d go off on her own again. 

Me and Bob had hoped she’d find a mate and start a pack. 

One day I spotted her in the park with Old Grey. I was hoping their paths would cross. He was an older lone male. They were both without a pack and neither one of them had ever been caught for a tracking collar. They had a lot of similarities so I had high hopes they would be able to start a pack together. But ever since Old Grey had been pushed out of his pack he developed a bad habit of getting too close to people. We’d gotten reports of a lone wolf rummaging through garbage cans on the edge of town. He’d even been caught on a few security cameras. Then he started picking off the livestock of a farmer on the edge of the park. 

It didn’t take long before I got the call. Two hunters phoned in to the station and said they found a dead wolf. When I got out there I could tell right away it was Old Grey. Not a mark on him, but his head was arched back and his limbs were stretched straight forward in the typical “sawhorse” pose. Strychnine poisoning. It’s a long and painful death that contorts the body. He used to be so proud, now just still. I hate knowing that he suffered like that. I grab my walkie talkie and tell the station to call the University. We try not to leave them out here if we know they’ve been poisoned. We can’t risk other animals eating him. Maybe the college kids can study him; get something out of this mess. 

I had to wait a while for them show up. Nothing else to do but sit on the hood of my car and enjoy the view. After about an hour the sun started to get low in the sky and decide to go sit inside the car. Right as I slid off the hood I saw her, coming up over the hill to my left. Alpha.

Neither one of us was expecting the other to be there and we just froze. As far as I knew, she’d never gotten this close to a person. But she didn’t run away. Just still. I was right in front of the car door but I knew I’d never make it if she charged me. Just then I heard the rumble of the old university bio lab truck behind me coming up the path. She bolted around and left in the direction she came. My heart was pounding but I never really felt threatened. She was just trying to say goodbye to Old Grey. 

A few months after that we spotted her with a younger male MG-422, who had been fitted with a tracking collar. He had recently hit maturity and left his pack to be with her. The university kids got all excited. Even though Alpha wasn’t tagged she was with a wolf who was. They had been able to track them around the base of the mountain for a few weeks. Alpha and MG-422 had been working together catching rabbits, but they’d need to start taking down bigger prey if they wanted to build a pack. We didn’t have to wait long, but the info we got didn’t come from the collar. 

Jim, my buddy and one of the bar owners in town, got his grandson Tyson to visit for a few weeks. Tyson just turned fourteen and his mom finally thought he was old enough to come up by himself. Jim had been dying to show off his wilderness skills so right away they go out hiking. They were near the mountain on a ridge at the edge of the tree line, looking down towards a clearing, when they spotted a female elk with her calf. Tyson grabbed his cell phone to take a video and as soon as he did two wolves ran out from the woods towards the calf. They got the whole thing on video. They couldn’t wait to show me when they got back. 

Apparently, Tyson was filming the female elk when the wolves burst out from the woods. The calf had already wandered several feet away and was easy to separate. There were a few seconds of rushing trees and sky before Tyson’s shaking hands were able to focus on the fleeing calf. In the panic the calf ran away from its mother and towards the stream. And right behind the calf was Alpha and MG-422. I had never seen them hunt before. Alpha was racing towards the calf, head down, focused, and rapidly closing the distance. MG-422 was a little farther behind. The calf was instinctively heading to the steam. If the water is deep enough it can keep the wolves at bay. Unfortunately, the stream was shallow, even for the calf. His pause brought them even closer. He sprung across to the other side, barely ahead of them. But when they hit the water going as fast as they were, they went down hard. Alpha got back up almost as fast as she fell. MG-422, a much less experienced hunter, lost momentum and lingered by the stream. Alpha, like a bolt of lightning, knocked the calf to the ground. Her teeth were around it’s neck before it could get back up. Alpha was barring down so hard she didn’t see it coming. The female elk rammed her from behind. The elk positioned herself between her calf and Alpha, stamping and bleating furiously. The calf was bleeding badly from the neck, but still managed to stand up. Alpha, who had almost single-handedly won the battle, had to watch her prize slip away. As ferocious as she had been she was not strong enough to go after the female, not alone. MG-422 was several feet away and had cost them their biggest meal yet. It was sad to see them fail, but it was amazing to see Alpha in action. Even with Tyson’s shaky cell phone video.

Tyson said after that the elk and her calf stayed in the clearing for a little while but Alpha and MG-422 went back into the woods. He went over the story with so much enthusiasm I thought his head was going to explode. Jim couldn’t believe their luck. He’d lived here his whole life and had never seen anything like that. You could see he was beaming with pride that he got to share this moment with his grandson. He took his arm and gave Tyson a hardy pat on the back. 

“Don’t tell your mother about the wolves.” He chuckled. “She might not let you come back up.”

I didn’t see Alpha for a while after that. I found a few of her tracks in the snow here and there. The right rear paw print was even fainter than normal. When the elk rammed her it must have aggravated her old injury. She was still out there but she was alone again. MG-422 was tracking in another area. They hadn’t been seen together since the failed hunt. The university kids had hoped she migrated with him. But she was still here and her tracks were always isolated. 

I honestly don’t know how she made it through another winter alone. On one of his rounds Bob found the remains of a moose. It looked like it had been there a while, the crows were pecking at whatever scraps they could get. He thought he found some of Alpha’s tracks nearby but there were bear tracks too. It looks like she might have scavenged the carcass. I just hope she got a good meal out of it.

All this time we never figured out why she was always alone. She’d had a successful pack before. She been with other males and tried to start families. As far as we can tell she never had her own pups. Maybe she liked being alone. Maybe the other wolves thought she was strange. Maybe it’s just the bad hand she’s learning to deal with. But she’s still out there; fighting every day. 

Hell, if I’m being honest maybe I like her so much cause she reminds me of me. I tried to start a family but my ex walked out on me. I never had kids either. I moved around more than I wanted, worked like hell just to survive. I got tired of trying to figure out where things went wrong and trying to explain myself to people who didn’t understand. I spend too much time alone. Maybe it’s just the bad hand I’m learning to deal with. 

My whole life I felt like I was supposed to be this alpha male. Strong, dominant, in control. I felt like I never measured up. I pushed people way. I went further inside myself. But being out here gives me time to think. Watching Alpha struggle forced me to realize that I see her the way I wanted people to see me. Like no matter what happened I was going to make it. 

She could have done what was expected, but then she never would have been this tough.

She didn’t need to be have subordinates to be dominant. It was just the way she was. If she could make it out here alone then so could I. 

She doesn’t howl often, but I can always tell it’s her. Her calls are the only ones that go unanswered. But she’s still out there. 

Lemon Cookies

As a child the only time I ever had lemon cookies was at my grandfather’s house. They were the store brand ones with the cream in the middle like an Oreo. I don’t remember if he liked them or if he only had them at the house because of me; but every time I eat a lemon flavored cookie I am transported to his backyard. I remember the pool and the hibiscus flowers. The water wings that actually made it difficult to swim. Everything was so beautiful. 

Honesty is a crazy thing. 

I was raised to be honest. I was told people would respect me for it. I was told it would set me free. Most often I found that it will set people free of me. 

The words come out easy, for me they always have. But it’s not simply the words - it is the meaning they carry. My eyes well up with tears, my chest burns, my spirit grows. But this is always perceived as weakness. 

I’ve lost so much for the sake of honesty I sometimes wonder why I was allowed to have anything at all. 

I give too much to get so little in return, but I’m not here to hold back. Let this venom run its course. One night at a time, love in fragments. 

Rejection gnaws on me slow and steady. Was I only made to be wasted? 

I can only be lost in myself for so long. My introspection turns into auto pilot. The cats are hungry. The sink is full of dishes. I let the laundry pile up for too long. I load up the car and head to the laundromat. I cram all my clothes into the machine and feed it quarters. I realize I haven’t eaten anything in a while. Sometimes the laundromat leaves out free snacks for the customers. I walk over the food stand and pull up the lid. 

Lemon cookies. The store brand ones with the cream in the middle.