We dance on the stage, ballerinas practicing our routine.
We watch from the audience and applaud.
Personalities painted in pictures of pretty pastels.
Don't be fooled.
We may entertain ourselves with the blaring lights of the stage,
but it's a heatless fire.

From card games and Legos,
towns of plastic people,
an architect of those tiny bricks.

From apple trees
and “sword”-fights with snapped twigs
on a summer breeze.

From road trips,
endless hours in that suburban,
endlessly asking, “Are we there yet?!”.

From curious clumsiness,
burnt hands on stovetops,
and scraped knees on pavement.

From the frozen creek,
gliding—no—flying across the surface,
on well-worn blades.

From Michigan trails,
glittering lakes and skipping stones,
hot against my palms from the sun-scorched sand.

From grassy, unkempt fields
behind an unfamiliar school,
painted with white lines and home to an ambitious team.

From “the sticks”,
or the country, as it’s better known,
bittersweet memories follow so that wherever I may go,
forever this was home.

Today,
1 year ago,

I killed her.

I
want
  to
    ******* i n g
                     die

Expected to know what to write.
Expected to fill these pages with wonderous words.
Expected to be good at that.
Expected to be a natural.
Expected to be the best.
Expected to be successful.
Expected to be more.
Expected to do more.
Expected to know what to say and exactly when to say it.
Expected to be kind, always.
Expected to be "normal".
Expected to grow up mentally past my years.
Expected to make a lot of money.
Expected to know what I want
Expected to know what I don't want.
Expected to get over it.
Expected to change more.
Expected to never change.
Expected to not be destructive.
Expected to always be happy.
Expected to make other people happy and keep them that way.
Expected to live.
Expected to recover.
Expected to want to recover.
Expected to live.
I've said that.

My old name is dead to me.
That's why they call it a deadname.
The person who had that name breathes no more.
She was killed by my own hands.

She was named for both of her grandmothers,
some sort of sentiment to come from a careless mistake.
Maybe this is what made it so easy for me to **** her
because her name was a throw-away.

Her middle name came from the title of a movie
that her parents had once liked.
But the movie is old and bland, and the plot has no meaning.
So her names are futile attempts at trying to right a wrong,
trying to make up for something that can never be fixed.

I killed her.
I wanted her dead so badly,
so I killed her.

My name is Casey.

I am not heartless, though.
She wanted me to be Casey.
Although I killed her, she still means something to me.

I had to **** her in order to move on.
She knew that.
So I am Casey for her.

Casey.

It means spear.
A weapon.

Fitting for a murderer.

My favorite season
is the bite of the wind as it brushes your cheeks.
It's the cushioning of a purposeful fall.
It's the muted gray skies and the hush of the world.
It's the crunch of the frozen fractals that support and keep you from falling in.

My favorite season
is the echoes of voices bouncing from the trees,
the only sounds to be heard.
It's the coze of a warm drink and the crackles and pops of the fireplace.

My favorite season is the temporary loss of visible life
until only by my favorite season's death
does the world start to breathe once again.