I have carried crates of dead weight
through backdoors reeking of bleach and rot
metal shelves that creak like tired bones,
gloves soaked through with chemicals
that blistered the skin right off my palms.
I have crouched in piss-stained stalls
scrubbing shit from walls while the clock
laughed at me
ticking down another hour
that I sold
for less than it cost to feed myself.
I’ve stood in break rooms with flickering lights,
eating crackers for dinner
while my stomach folded in on itself
like paper left in the rain.
I’ve watched others go home
to laughter and light,
while I walked alone beneath streetlamps
that buzzed like insects
and cast shadows too long for one body to make.
They don’t tell you what happens
when you give your best
over and over
and the world just shrugs.
It doesn’t break you all at once.
It wears you down in slices
a sliver of pride here,
a shard of health there,
until you look in the mirror
and don’t recognize
the thing still standing.
There were nights I came home
and sat in the dark
because I couldn’t afford the light
and silence was cheaper than tears.
Nights when my bones ached
so loud
I thought they might burst through my skin
just to escape this life.
I have been everyone—
the cashier who smiles with swollen feet,
the mover with fingers jammed and bleeding,
the cleaner scrubbing footprints
no one else sees.
I have swallowed pain like broken glass
each shift, each rejection,
another jagged shard down the throat.
And I smiled anyway.
Because that’s what the strong ones do.
They ask,
“Why don’t you reach out?”
But when I did
just once
my voice trembled like a branch in wind,
and the silence on the other end
was colder than the night.
No one stays for the weight.
They only love you
when you carry theirs
and hide your own
behind tired eyes
and “I’m fine.”
I gave my twenties to labor
and my thirties to survival.
Now my body is a collapsed cathedral,
once full of firelight,
now hollowed by time and prayerless years.
I have tried to build warmth
with nothing but friction
rubbing my hands together
until the skin peeled,
just to feel something.
I have slept on floors,
eaten scraps,
buried joy like a body too costly to mourn.
And still
no one came.
Not for the birthdays forgotten.
Not for the breakdowns behind bathroom doors.
Not for the slow unravelling
of someone who never asked for much
only to matter.
There is a special kind of pain
reserved for the reliable
for the ones who show up
even when the walls are collapsing.
For the ones who never make a scene
and therefore
go unseen.
I am not lazy.
I am not weak.
I am not broken by accident.
I was crushed
under the weight
of being good
in a world
that only loves
what it can take.
They call me by a name. I’m a simple man from Arlen, Texas, and I’m proud to say I sell propane and propane accessories for a living. I’ve been the assistant manager at Strickland Propane for years, and there’s nothing I take more pride in than a job well done and a clean-burning flame.
My world revolves around my family: my wife, Peggy, the best substitute teacher you’ll ever meet, and our son, Bobby. I love that boy, even if I don’t always understand him. I also have a great group of friends—Dale, Bill, and Boomhauer—and we spend most of our nights in the alley, drinking beer and talking. We solve all of the world’s problems right there in that alley.
I’m a man who believes in hard work, a firm handshake, and the simple things in life. You’ll find me out on my perfectly manicured lawn, firing up the grill, or just taking a moment to appreciate a job well done. I’m a traditional man, and while the world keeps changing, some things are just right the way they are.