Not Even the Dogs

They say rock bottom is solid,

but this feels more like sinking in air,

grasping for something—anything—

that won’t disappear when he reaches for it.

He used to be somebody,

or at least someone who believed he could be.

Now he flinches at mirrors

like they’re loaded guns.

It started small,

a shortcut here, a comfort there—

a drink for the ache,

a lie for the rent,

a silence when truth was too loud.

He tells himself it was the trauma,

that broken compass inside his chest,

spinning at the scent of abandonment,

ticking louder when touched.

Grief is a patient hunter.

It waits until you try to stand

before it takes your legs again.

He tried—God, he tried.

Filled out forms with shaking hands,

wore borrowed shirts to interviews,

slept on couches that reeked of better lives.

But every hand he reached for

was already pulling away.

Each step forward broke a new floorboard.

Each time he built, the storm came sooner.

He’s lived in cars, in tents, in silence.

He’s eaten pride more than food.

And still,

they look at him like mold that learned to walk.

He wonders sometimes,

why dogs are granted mercy

when their pain outweighs their bark.

Why he’s expected to crawl through glass

with a smile and a job application.

Is he less than a dog?

He’s asked it aloud.

In alleyways. In courtrooms.

In prayers dressed as curses.

“I’m sorry,”

he whispers to no one,

because everyone is gone.

He’s sorry he wasn’t stronger.

He’s sorry he made it this far.

He’s sorry he’s still here.

And just when the dark

starts making more sense than the light,

when the cold hands of maybe not tomorrow

feel gentle—

a thump.

Then purring.

A small weight climbs his chest.

Green eyes, wide and patient.

A paw brushes his stubbled cheek

like it forgives him

for what he hasn’t done yet.

“Hey, buddy,” he says.

His voice breaks like old wood.

The cat doesn’t flinch.

It stays.

And maybe that’s enough

to try again tomorrow.