Story of a Champion (Let Go to Get One)

A note of humor, before I dive into the point of the post. I use Nature's Gate Organics Peppermint Whitening Mouthwash with Flouride, and only today I noticed the tagline:

The freshest in oral care from the leaders of Natural.

I could really go for some fresh oral care right now, but my version involves DSL (Hint: Not the hi-speed Internet).

Aaaaand ... back to our regularly scheduled seriousness. First, a conversation:

--I'm glad you're getting out of here.
--Why?
--Because you're bigger than this.
--Thanks. You are too.
--Word. I told you that poem came from a good place.

That was last night. Myself and one Sierra DeMulder. If you've been reading this blog with any regularity you know three things about her:

1. She's a poet.
2. She's awesome.
3. She has an unparalleled ability to get me completely shithoused. There is no "Let's have a beer tonight." It's more like, "Let's do SHOTS!" (Dirty Girl Scouts and Redheaded Sluts are our regulars. I've got a not-secret thing for real redheaded sluts, too, but don't have those regularly. I've been on a blonde kick, I have. Yup yup yup. Who am I not linking to? Are they bloggers, or just randoms I've mentioned in previous entries? Maybe none, maybe both. I wonder ...)

But alas - Sierra, she is moving on. Off to Minnesota to explore life, poetry and hang out with the coolest kids I've only known for a week, including my drunk texting secret lover. We came into the Oneonta poetry scene at the same time, and while I took time to figure the game out, the kid was a MONSTER from the jump, winning her first Big O! Poetry Slam and then taking second at the Black Oak, earning "People's Champ" status, which she converted into "Actual Champ" status the following month. She went on to rack up a pair of 29s at this year's National Poetry Slam, placing 40th as an individual. No. 40. Of all the spoken word poets competing nationally last year. And of course, she comes back from there and writes her best piece yet. Fucker. We both know the only reason I won last month's slam was because she wasn't there. I'm okay with it, and she tries not to remind me. Unless I'm talking too much shit while playing pool. Actually, she's never even said anything except, "Congratulations, that's awesome," which is why I love her.

Outside of watching her impress people with her poetry like I'm her dad (who's also awesome, btw) I'ma miss harassing her at the Latte Lounge (and meeting all her cute female coworkers, as well as the cool-ass dudes) and hanging out with her five days a week and sometimes seven and having her make a pretty solid pool player outta me and her putting up with me when I'm being an idiot and chasing after girls we both know are bad for me and just ... her. Connections are a bitch. She's gonna be a successful kid, and I think she's starting to believe it. I been workin on gettin her there for a long minute, so she better, ha.

So now that I've rambled on for too long, I'ma shut up and let "Leaving" do the talking for me, one more time, with feeling, for the inspiration herself. I'ma miss you, Si. Keep doin' you, stay beautiful and don't let anyone ever tell you that's not good enough. BLBD.

---

Breaking your heart
is the hardest thing I have to do before leaving,
so I'm saving it for last
because the aftermath of that insurgency
isn't anything I've got a real plan for.

And in trying to be selfless,
I'm making my self less
and all I want is to let you make me more than I am.
Crack the can open again;
vacuum seal separated
as metal slices neatly through metal at every emotional twist
until all of me is exposed
and you can empty and rinse out my insides,
filling me back up with every dream I've been unable to articulate
because it lacked the eloquence your editing was able to offer.
You helped rewrite the stories of my soul
in an order that made more sense,
and doesn't depend on defense to provide proper context.

It took a little bit of time,
but you're no longer a best-friend bandage
ready to fall away after any intimacy opened has healed.
You've rubbed raw my secret moments,
infected every embarassment
and poisoned my plasma with so much shared ... life
that a hemophiliac episode could never
bleed you out.

We've succeeded in stripping away
the pseudo-personality I repeatedly recreate
protective layer by practiced parable,
filleting the rigid structure of intentional reveals
in order to savor the flesh of my experiences
without any forced direction
as you sectioned my soul into categories of your choosing.

I'll take "relationships that shouldn't have got this intense"
for $500.

And when I come back to visit,
I hope you're somewhere else.
Not because you're out of town
or have a family function
or a fall festival on some farm,
but because you're bigger than this.

And I know you don't believe that,
and maybe you never will,
but all I can do is tell you,
lock my hands around your shoulders
and keep you an arm's length away
because you'll need the distance to see I'm speaking the truth.
When I'm speaking of you,
and the way your life sparkles like fairy dust
and affects everyone else just as much,
because you allow them to fly when you make people believe
that Neverland really is straight on 'til morning.

So stay awake with me
and steal kisses before the sun as it breaks above the balcony,
our eyes too bleary do anything but stare directly into the center
just like our mothers warned us not to.
But we won't go blind,
just come to find ... love
in a look we'll never get to share again.
And though from that moment time passes,
until we see that same sun set together,
this day
never
ends.

---

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