(read forward, then backward, line by line)

I ran.
Not knowing what else to do
There was so much blood on my hands
It was mine
The kitchen knife
Caught in my chest
Guilt
Consumed by
Fear
I was heightened by
Adrenaline
But running on
Wasn’t enough
While trying to stay calm,
Losing control
It was me that would end up
Dead. Because
He was
In front of me
The whole time
It was too late
Trapped
I found myself
Locked in chains
My fate was
Death.

If you are looking for me
I will be at 3 am
with the poets
searching for the right words to illustrate emotion
with the painters
who feel words are not enough
with the doubters
staring at the ceiling, feeling they aren't worth it
with the prayers
looking to the light for the strength they rely on
with the dreamers
living with a whole universe in there head
with the believers
positive their dreams will come true
with the broken hearters
whose dreams fought with reality
with the troubled
finding it hard to shut their brain off

So if you are looking for me
the poets, the painters
the doubters, the prayers
the dreamers, the believers
the broken hearters, the troubled
and me
will all be
at 3 am

What now?
I haven't even said a thing
yet the conversation is over
why do we even need to talk at all?
is this some elaborate charade
where you satisfy your selfish need
to always feel superior?
                      We both know what will be said
                      We both know how this goes down
                      all I wish is that you had
                      the kind of faith in me
                      which I've always given you
                      but at least I got to see
                                          who you really are
                                          and where we really stand
                                          that neither of us was perfect
                                          and I was the only one
                                                      who didn't care.
so what now?
     things can't go back
                  I can't trust you
                              and it's breaking me inside
                                      just to know any of you now
                                      just knowing what you do
                             to those you call your friends
                  it makes me wonder how
you manage to have any friends at all

there is no way out of this
no chance to be friends like before
all the love and loyalty
is now entirely gone
replaced by a facade for the sake of those
who are still my friends
and your friends

                                                 I don't know what to say
                   I was mad at first
                   when you betrayed me
                   but I should have known better
                          I should have known better
                          I should have known
                                                           ­    better.

I'm not...
There is so much I am not.
Happy?
No.
Angry?
No.
Sad?
No.
Then what?
Empty.
But this isn't you.
I know.
You're so different.
I know.
All of your energy...
Stolen.
All of your passion...
Taken.
All of your fight...
Gone.
... for good?
I couldn't tell you.
But before-
Everything from before feels unreal, fake.
Surely you'll feel different tomorrow.
Surely.
.
.
.
So I suppose it doesn't matter.

1.  Dust is constant. It is a symbol of time telling you that either something needs to be cleaned, or you need to take a picture.
There will never be complete cleanliness so when people say "cleanliness is close to Godliness" promptly hand over an invitation to have dinner at your dusty house. And then show those people where you pray. Notice that sacred space has dust.

2. Chairs are complicated. They can have 4 legs, 5 legs, no legs, wheels on their legs. Chairs are such a wild forever changing species that we don't really have a good concept of what a chair is. Which begs the question, what is true chairness? Plato believed that somewhere somehow there is a perfect concept of such things. Which begs the question, what is it to be truly human? From where I stand, we all wear skin, breathe air, and hate high school anyway.

3. Appreciate your couch. I realized this at a young age when I figured out that dying means, never seeing a couch again.

4. The bed is not sacred. It is not a stronghold or sanctuary. It is the place you go when you are either done or satisfied with the world.

5. Windows are the windows of your house. It doesn't sound as good as eyes being the window to your soul but my point still stands. The windows are beautiful. And snowflakes freezing on them is a captured moment of nature being transparent.

6. Take a painting class. Learn how to make art on a canvas and hang that **** up. Buy a painting for no other reason other than that it costs more than $50. Travel and bring back a print and frame it. Learn to cross-stitch and hang that up too. The walls may change colour from time to time, but at least hang something on them.

7. Look for imperfection. When I was a kid I took a pencil and wrote in jagged penmanship "The end" at the bottom of my staircase. My mother, of course, scolded me for writing on the house, but for whatever reason, she kept the phrase there. Maybe because I knew the end had to be somewhere and I might as well end in the home I started in.

8. Buy refrigerator magnets that teach kids the alphabet. Organize them so that reading a message in the morning makes breakfast seem a little more inviting. And as a firm believer that breakfast is not a necessary meal, I too, need something in the morning to make me feel less alone.

9. Fill one closet with cleaning supplies. We may never get to the end of many tasks, but we can clean this house. Clean the cupboards, wash the windows, sweep the floor, write on the walls, just so you can erase it. And when you finish cleaning, and you bring all of your supplies to that closet, organize your closet. Notice that there is a small amount of dust on the shelves of the closet.

10. Work around the house, big or small, is never completely over.