I tear my heart open; I sew myself shut
my weakness is that I cared too much
my scars remind me that the past is real
I tear my heart open just to feel

yesterday I saw a picture on the front page of the paper and had
to read the name in the caption before I realized that it was the guy
who beat me up.  the article was about a proposed smoking ban in
public places.  the guy is an alcoholic.  the article
mentioned that he was on his second beer in the afternoon and that he
had a backpack.  I would suspect that after fourteen years he’s
not doing too well.  I’m just surprised he’s not dead.

honestly, it feels a little weird.  there’s no reason he should be
in my town.  he never had any connection here when I knew
him.  the last I saw of him was me closing my door on him and
telling him I never wanted to see his face again.  the second to
last time was the one and only time I’ve ever hit a person.  I
punched him in the stomach with every force of my being.  he flew
back about four feet, hit his head on the door frame, crushed a large
pottery jug, and passed out.  no one has ever come close to
hitting me again.

he tried to flush one of my volumes of poetry down the toilet.  he
picked me up and threw me into the bathtub dislocating my wrist. 
I’ve heard worse stories from other people but it’s one of my
worst.  I will never live like that again.  not even close.