I can’t remember the last time I was able to just breathe. 

I haven’t had a home in 5 years (that’s mine). 

My mental struggles make me feel like I’ve climbed Everest at least a dozen times. All to the enthusiastic cheers of crowds screaming out, “But you still need therapy.”

And I’ve amassed so much personal trauma that if there were an Olympic event for it, it would be the first time in many years you might consider me an athlete. 

My body is a mix of scars — some intentional, some accidental. The middle of my back is leathery; on my side there’s still dips from broken glass piercing it; and even my fingers bear scars from me carving things into them when I was younger. 

And those are just the ones you can see all the time.

Only a handful of people who have looked at my mouth before wrapping theirs around it have noticed that I have a scar poking out from underneath my beard. There’s also a scar on my scalp that no one — and I mean absolutely no one — remembers how I got. 

I’m not gently used. I’ve thoroughly burned through myself. 

However, I don’t regret any of it. I don’t lie awake nights hoping someone invents backwards time travel. 

Every wound has been necessary. Every low blow deserved. God has accepted each prayer, and carefully reviewed them before denying the requests.

I used to think that it was all wrong.

The old tales of heroes my father always read to me said I could be this lawful good person. Just charge a castle, save a princess, get a kiss and live happily ever after. 

But that’s not me. 

I’m just the guy who shows up when the hero is busy. I’m more Mad Max. I’m always leaving after there’s no chance of chaos anymore.

Because as much as I’ve chased the idea of settling down and falling in love — and sure, eventually I want to get there — I’d break it if I touched any of that at the moment. 

The truth is that right now I’m in the mood for more wounds. 

And as much as this world can beat the hell out of me, I can fuck myself up just fine all on my own.

I want to cover my entire body in the stories of raucous and unpredictable times.

Let my many little deaths in life display themselves in the black spot in the corner of my left eye, left from a burn years ago. Or at least that’s how I vaguely remember it now.

People will, if I get my way, look at my face and what I’ve done to it and ask, “How old was he again?”

Because if you look close enough, you’ll realize I’ve always been writing out my most intimate story.

And it’ll finally be ready for an audience as I lay in my coffin, waiting for you to read it off my skin.