target practice


With the sun about to retire from its day of condescension and needless pride, the unwelcome fluorescence of pain floods into the open stitches of the cracks of his being. It was an exhausted day of seeing faces and hearing noises and feeling through calloused fingertips, and it was time for him to retreat, although the usage of the word ‘retreat’ is defeated by the fact that he has to face a more lethal and sinister form of numbness – bandaging the bullet holes in his body in a zone of relentless warfare.

He asked himself how he came to be that way -beaten and broken. Then he realized that whatever happened had happened to ensure that he becomes who he was intended to be, though questions creep in as he asks himself if brokenness was to be his life.

He would go to bed weary from the emotional exhaustion that weighed on his mangled heart, crushing his soul, and causing him to bleed, the blood seeping out of the fissures of his flesh and the sutures of his spirit. He would go to bed terrified, not for monsters or ghosts or specters, no, but, actually for the idea of another day attempting to keep his broken pieces from falling, and having to stare at a stranger after they pick up a piece of him that had probably dropped on the pavement, or the parking lot.

He does not dream, and seldom even sleeps. His relationship with his bed is one filled with mockery and insults that his tears provide. The words ‘failure’, ‘disappointment’, and ‘shameful’ were fired so carelessly as if they were bullets from a machine gun in target practice. This has made it difficult for him to understand the concept of waking up, when his was reality was the nightmare.