Bruiser

As the sun hides behind the shearing clouds, the
temperature plunges and frustrated mothers race
to their children, coats at the ready to battle the
schizophrenic day, and Bronte ignores the
breeze, knowing the sun will strobe on again in a
moment; yet if she’s cold she does not care,
because she’s begun the inquisition,

And I wonder if her need to know is stronger
than my need to remain unexposed.

“How did it start?
Do you choose who you heal?
How do you choose?
Who do you choose?
Does anyone know?
How does it work?
Do you have to be touching?
Why won’t you answer?
Aren’t you listening?
Brew?”

Even as I offer Bronte nothing but silence, her hand
ventures beneath my shirt, roaming my back to
make a gentle accounting of my wounds—asking
me if it hurts, telling her that it does, just a little—
then her hand moves around to my chest, and just
as I realize she’s not feeling wounds anymore,
she tickles my neck, giggles, and pulls back her
hand, and I think how different this is—how I’ve
never been teased, at least not like this, not the
way a girl teases her boyfriend,

And the raw power of that thought makes me surrender,
giving in to the interrogation,
willfully spilling forth things I’ve never told a soul.

“For as long as I can remember I’ve stolen,
Ripping all the hurts from the people I love,
And from no one else.
I don’t choose it,
I don’t want it,
But because they found a place in my heart
I steal their pain as soon as I’m near them,
And all because I got caught caring.
But those others,
ALL the others,
Dripping their disapproval like summer sweat,
They’re on the outside,
And I will never let them in.
Never.
Let them keep their broken bones,
Shed their own blood,
I hate them.
I have to hate them, don’t you see?
Because what if I didn’t? What if I suddenly started to care?
And their friends became my friends,
And every ache and pain,
Every last bit of damage,
Drained from them to me,
Until I was nothing but fractures and sprains,
Cuts and concussions,
But as long as I keep them on the right side of
resentment,
Despising them all,
I’m safe.”

Listening keenly, passing no judgment, Bronte takes
it all in, then leaning close, she kisses my ear,
healing me in a way she will never understand,
and she whispers, “But you did choose to care
about Tennyson and me. You let us in, Brew.”

So I nod and whisper back: “Promise you’ll close the
door behind you.”

26) ENUMERATION

Here are the ten things
I will never tell Bronte
Or anyone else:

1) My father could be one of five men I’ve met,
And after having met them,
I don’t want to know.