Hollow Points

**Sometime in 2019 before everything crashed**

My body is wet concrete.¹ Some nights I stare at the ceiling until sunrise, other nights I crash so hard I don't remember falling asleep. Strange place to be.

There's guilt that sits in my stomach when I drop my daughter off. She waves goodbye with a smile that doesn't understand why I only gets her two days a week. Why we moved six times in five years. Why the rules are different here. She's resilient in that oblivious way only kids can be. I'm the one who feels broken.

My MFA professor sent me an email that said walk before you run in. Like I'm some kindergartner who can't stay in the lines. But yesterday, I caught myself telling my daughter to stop coloring outside the lines. The hypocrisy burned my throat. Maybe I need to get on her level—color without worrying about the mess. Maybe I need to do the same in class. Unlearn the pretension. Find the joy in life again. We colored for thirty minutes yesterday, listening to Taylor Swift. It was awesome.

No stress. No debt. No ex’s. Just a dad with his daughter.

But, a part of me was fantasizing about taking that air traffic control job in Dubai. The one that pays triple what I make now. No one would know my name. No one would need anything from me except to guide metal birds safely home. Clean slate. No expectations.

But then my daughter calls me sometimes on Wednesday nights to tell me about her day, and something in my chest breaks open. I want the chaos. I want her sticky fingerprints on my phone screen. I want to be the one who puts the dollar under her pillow because she only has a few more baby teeth left.

I should be writing fiction right now. I have a short story to fix and a novel to finish, but I’m writing on Susbtack hoping it will kick in the other part of my brain that says write something good.

My good friend bought a boat last summer and asked if I’d be coming to the lake with him this year. I told him I work on weekends. He said lucky man. By luck, I think he meant, more money? But I don’t get more money, it’s just part of my job.

What the hell am I doing?

Some days I don't know. Other days, when the words flow or when my daughter falls asleep against my shoulder, I think maybe this is exactly where I'm supposed to be. Broken open. Learning to walk again.