I'm All He Has

I am the complete collection of one man’s worldly possessions. I am all he has. 

I am his placebo, without me he’d feel empty and lost, but since I am all he has, he doesn’t mind risking his life to cross the street on a busy Thursday afternoon. 

I am the portrait of his dead son. I am the bullet that killed his boy. I am the hate that provoked the bullet. I am the table in the morgue his maimed body was dumped on. I am the emptiness in the eyes of his shooter. I am the police files never sent. I am the rage and despair felt. I am the marriage the sorrow ruined.  I am the taste of tears. 

I am the used clothes he spent his last cent on. I am someone else’s trash. I am torn. I am stained. I am ruined. I am uncouth. I am covered in crass slogans he doesn’t agree with. I am his acceptance of failure. 

I am his ex-wife’s broken necklace, which he is taking to the pawnshop. I am his lost love. I am the letters he sent to each address of hers he knew, pleading for her diminishing love to remain. I am the anger when she finally wrote him back, telling him it never would. I am his broken heart. I am his vengeance pursued by giving up his last memory of her.

I am his prayer book, given to him by a self- righteous religious type, to save his soul.  I am the prayer he prays every night, not from the book, but from his soul, asking for his life back, and asking for forgiveness for what he’s done on his own attempts. I am the meek hymn he remembers singing to his child as his son fell asleep. I am his guardian angel. 

I am his poverty. I am his failed plan.  I am the wrong side of town. I am the sound of screaming at night. I am the smell of urine in the streets. I am his sweat on a hot summer day. I am the frostbite on his toes. I am the dream of his boy and his bride. I am his lost soul. 

I am his savior. I am the bleak ray of hope. I am his elusive second chance. I am his minor means of survival. I am the small potential of overcoming this downfall.

I am what he clings to at night when the cold prevails and the light fades. 

I am his comfort. I am his makeshift family. I am the scent of liquor and food that makes this wasteland a tiny bit bearable until the wind dies down. I am the drug-dealer who sometimes gives him a toke out of pity.

I am his mistrust. I am the urge to fend for him self. I am the reason he never lets go to any of his feeble belongings. I am the other vagabonds he can’t afford to empathize with.

I am how the world sees him. I am a useless waste of air. I am your tax dollars spent redundantly. I am a blemish on the complexion of your perfect world. I am someone else’s problem. 

I am the misguided pity and loathing. I am just another statistic- I am angry, I am poor, I am cheated, I am black, I am worthless, I am filthy, I am stupid, I am violent, I am drunk, I am immoral, I am what you tell your children to look out for, I am bad, I am trouble, I am one of them. 

I am the difference between perceived success and failure. I am what differentiates between him and you. I am the sole truth that corrupt politicians and ruthless, heartless business executives are worth more than this kind man with bad luck.

I am his only friend. I am his loyal companion, always with him. I am the only one in the whole world who understands him. I am the compatriot who makes him unpopular and lowers his value in life. I am his worst enemy.

I am all he has.