I'll Lose You in the Stars

Foxy's Eyes

Everyone knows what a psychopath hoards- anything that bleeds, be it gold or crimson.

But do you know what an empath collects? Anything that bleeds- anything that bleeds you.

When a curious child bends down to pick up something glittering on the asphalt, there isn't even a peep of fear to be detected from the adults eyeing their child over their red plastic cups, not even a small ripple sent sneaking across their pond.

When a child begins to place glass teeth in an old shoebox, no one sees beyond the mismatched trash for what it really is: a premonition promising a graveyard of bones.  Whose bones? Why, her very own of course, buried deep in holes dredged by a menagerie of the sharpest edges.

Busted glass still glints and smiles in the moonlight; it reflects the beauty it once cradled when it was whole and pure. But it will bite when it is touched, the beauty will curdle with the sting, and she will long to recapture that glimpse of beauty once again.

For me, my pile of glass translated into a heap of stray golf balls and an abandoned teddy bear head in the woods, a fish plate with a crack down its spine that was swimming in the trash-bin, a handy-down groovy-green skinned doll from the 60s stuffed into a donation box, and the like. I amassed neglected and defected things because I thought their shine would be so much more special than that that already gleamed and glistened.

Sometimes my treasures did glow bright and brilliant. Sometimes my friends would blaze with honesty and kindness. But, for the most part, they remained dusty and damaged. For the most part, my friends persisted in stagnation or rotting.

Always, the cruel, cut.

Always, the discontented, dirtied.

Always, the battered, bruised.

Always, those settled in their ruins repeated rupturing.

When I was young, I was given a dog named "Foxy". Foxy was a whole jar of broken glass with a big red Christmas bow tied around her neck. She looked just like my childhood dog that had passed away and I saw my dear old dog in her eyes.

But Foxy was fractured. For a moment, she was an innocent puppy; she was sweet like my old dog had been. But then, she was a terror. She attacked my little brother when he just wanted to show her affection. When I went to pet her, oftentimes her lips would curl upwards and saliva would drizzle from her muzzle. She'd growl and snap at my reaching fingers and I'd jump back in fear. But, for some reason, that deep pain that her feral eyes shot through my heart, it made me hope, it made me love her even more- but it wasn't a clean and gentle love; it was an infected and weighty love.

So, when Foxy had to be taken back to the shelter because she proved too dangerous to keep around, I wept. And I alone wept. Which was the first time I realized that most people are glad to rid themselves of the hand that reaches to mangle them, but, for some reason, I was defected- I'd rather endure the pain of being bitten than the phantom pains of what would no longer be.

I didn't mourn the fear she instilled, or the injuries she gave me. I cried and cried because I couldn't help her become the man's best friend that I so longed for her to be. I could not fix her and watch her grow outside of that shelter we would have to haul her back to.

And, then there were the Foxy's of the world. They always seemed to gravitate towards me, or, at least, I always seemed to gravitate towards them. When I looked into their eyes, I saw what I saw in Foxy's eyes- something familiar and warm. Something good. And, even when the lies, manipulation, and merciless accusations hurtled at me clouded their eyes- I remembered how they looked, so clear and serene, when the sun was out.

Now, when I am alone, curled up like death, staring at the ceiling above, I remember all of those eyes that brought about the same ending. I watch them replay against the grainy color of early morning. I see and feel those eyes- not the eyes of my gentle old dog, Foxy's eyes. They lash me and leave me, again and again, just as others had done to them, again and again. And, as I relay these fires, the skin straining against my stitches pulses and tugs, again and again. And, I fight to resist the urge to erupt into screaming and to rip them out, again and again.

Now, I am much too weary for my age. Now, I too, am a pile of broken glass.

Because the more pieces you are shattered into, the more pieces you find yourself searching for, splicing yourself on, in desperate hopes to put yourself back together.

Note: I don't own any of the media used. All credit goes to their creators! I'll try to credit the artists if I know who they are. Please me know if you recognize any media used so I can give their creators credit.