I look back to another time.
My days spent ashamed
of the meager family money I was using.
The hustle cash I was blowing like Monopoly money.
I knew the value of working hard,
but I wanted excess time to rage, to medicate.
Naive freedom and heady social status
compelled me to scale out another bag.
And I wouldn’t dare pursue a realistic romantic relationship-
-the kind with dinner dates, nice trips, or extra toothbrushes.
The trips I took, the food I’d eat, the rum I’d drink
was all in someway embarrassing and desperate
enough for one (me).
I only had two hands.
My right was busy with Boston University.
My left was busy with the game.
Love was a turn of the torso.
Close friends and roommates
are wonderful and supportive and comforting.
But they don’t give you butterflies.
They aren’t the same to watch a movie with.
You can’t expect them to always rub your feet.
They don’t form the apex of physical and emotional love.
A growing friendship is not a blooming romance.
I’ve met women that I love, that excite and inspire me.
And we connect together physically.
But I could not realistically exist as their counterpart,
live together, spend holidays with them, travel to meet them.
I could only text them or find muted comfort in social networking.
This was true as I was poor and ignorant,
a young Texan putting on a show.
This was true as I was strung out and
moving more and more drugs to live and eat-
any excess money wasn’t really mine at all.
This was true as I spent the last year
confused, angry and ashamed at my mistakes.
Disassociated with some in their addictions,
Disassociated with others for my crime.
Now, as I feel like I can live a life that suits me,
I can be proud that I am transparent.
My family and friends trust me.
But I am being punished by the system, truly.
They don’t care if you are rehabilitated.
Alone for what they say may be eighteen months,
letters and visits aside, I have a past to think about.
A past filled with lightning love
and I’m not excited about it.