Dear Steele: If I were to go somewhere, or do something to take my sadness away, what would it cause? Would it cause me to give up my friend, to give in my piece of treasure? Would I stop writing you, talking to you, being comforted by you, kissing you? You weren’t mine to possess, so how could you be mine to give. I cry over the thought of my sadness. I don’t know why it won’t go away. When it leaves me, I don’t know why it left me behind.
Would I forget you as I moved about my day, only to call upon you in times of need? Would you feel used up by me? I’ve stopped calling your name. I’ve already forgotten the sound: “Hey Steele”, “Man Steele”, “Bey Steele”, “Please Steele”, “Steele”, “Steele”! I try to say it out loud; all I hear is the longing, not the being. Will your name become just another noun, as I still try to figure out where to put the steel in this house of mine.
Yesterday I gave my spirit permission to heal. They say the word is so powerful; all we need to do is tell our bodies to drop it. If I let go, where would I fall? Would I catch myself before I made contact with myself on the cold, hard pavement? Last time I had an open wound, I never wanted it to stay open. I wanted to see the scar tissue form, so I knew there would be a witness to my past; proof of my former self.
I don’t remember the thrill of the game, or the sting of the pain, or the sadness of the loss, until I invoke it when I touch my knee, when I rub my scar or move around it when I shave. I desperately want to feel it was real. It was not an illusion. The more I move away, the more static I see. The more uncertain I become of the colours, the smells, the flavours. I don’t want to shit it out, like waste, discarded in a sewage pit to rot away. I want to savour it like each precious lick of a tootsie roll. I want it to nourish me like raw food.
If I were to move on, where would I be heading? I’m running away from you. When I get over it, who will I be getting on? How can I get you to stay? Be my muse. Be my sunshine. Be my international man of mystery.