I wend my way through the hazy days that make up my life after it happened.

And the worst part is coming to accept that.

On most days, the day feels like it has lost its lustre. The glossy sheen has gone.

I feel good in the way someone goes to put their freshly purchased CD into the slot in the car only to find out it’s got a scratch on it despite being bought yesterday. The feeling of cutting wrapping paper perfectly until that fraction of a second at the end where it tears and I tear up just wanting to do something completely.

You know? Like when you stick the knife into a fresh jar of peanut butter or jam and break that tiny perfect circle all by yourself.

All the jam and peanut butter I buy already has that top broken by someone else. And my friends take condiments and spreads to my house in perfect condition for me, but it’s just not the same, is it?

I work hard and take things, day by imperfect day. I’m always looking over my shoulder but I’m always looking forward and hoping for that one perfect day.

When I can forgive, and move on with my life.

When the day feels like tearing the cellophane off a box containing a brand new phone. And it feels like you’ll never ever ever ever peel off that tiny protective layer from the phone screen.

And I can pretend, in my own little world of a thousand immaterial cuts, that I can be perfect. And complete. Full, and transformed into goodness.

I am scarred, though hope springs eternal. I watch as the wounds heal to red and to pink and fade away on my skin. I imagine the knives rusting, getting older and developing their own injuries sustained by time.

I imagine, as my skin heals, the verdigris and dirt developing on the knife as it breaks


Things are getting better.


This is an excerpt from Charlie Chitty’s new poetry chapbook, Throwing Dead Pigeons Into Oncoming Traffic, coming this Friday from Terror House Press.