They painted the earth shades of red:
The color of apples, shining proudly as they grow.
The deep color of wine, swirling in a crystal glass, staining the lips of a young woman.
The color of blood, dripping from the bodies of a hundred men, their bodies laying out in a field, their souls.. Who knows?

But the Earth was now different shades of red, and all of these lives were lost. Mothers lose their titles, a little girl whose father will never tuck her in at night, and a soul mate lost to those who waited and waited for his or her love to come home.

All these lives lost. It seems so terrible. But where there is loss, there is gain.

A nation free. A mother who can beam with pride, for her son was a hero. A little girl who will grow up and tuck her own daughter in one day, and for those who lost their lovers? They are free because of the sacrifices made. They are alive because of love. They can live to tell everyone that these soldiers painted the earth red, the color of their hearts.

She ended up further from the house than she originally planned, but it didn’t bother her.

She need some space.

The walls were too thick. She felt them everywhere she went, those walls. Even out in this field, they surrounded her on each side and stole the air from her lungs.

Did walls have to breathe?

She was used to that feeling. Short of breath, short of life. The problem was, this is the kind of life she had wanted. A marriage to a handsome, wealthy man. He could take care of her, he could provide to her anything and everything. It was everything she had hoped for. That’s what she kept telling herself.

But it wasn’t, and she knew it. She knew it, she knew it, she knew it. But she didn’t dare say. She didn’t dare give even the slightest hint of unhappiness. After all, her parents hand-picked him for her. It was a tough decision, they said, since she had so many suitors. But he was the wealthiest, the most promising.

They promised. And he was.

She would never forget his face, his eyes, and certainly not the way his hands felt,

as one grabbed her shoulder and the other one made contact with her face.

No dancing, he said. He wouldn’t allow it. It didn’t make sense, she thought, for her to sit concealed behind these four walls. All day, she sat, waiting for him to return. She knew not of what he did, not of how he made his money. But it was there, so she remained quiet, what choice did she have really? Submit and be quiet, or feel his hands. And she did not like the feel of his hands.

So today she decided to walk. He told her no, of course, when she asked. It wasn’t acceptable for a lady to walk. What are you going to do? You certainly cannot leave me. You are my property, you know this.

Of course not, she said. These walls, they steal my air.

Ha! He was mocking her. He raises his hand, reaching for her. They won’t be the only things…

She promised him she would stay inside, but after he left, she slipped away. Five minutes of fresh air, she thought, that’s all she needed.

So she walked. She was farther from the house than she had planned, but it didn’t bother her. She needed some space.

But then, the sky grew gray. And she knew, she just knew, that the universe was speaking to her. Get back inside, it said. Hurry, he’s coming back. Go! Now!

She turned and picked up speed. A giant pillow of wind rushed at her. Her body and the wind, like two lovers, dancing. It felt good. No, it felt wonderful. The wind was what she needed.

She stood suspended in that moment, and the wind breathed the air into her lungs that he would later take away.

I returned home to the kitchen the way it was left,
with everything laid out on the counter top.
It was such a mess,
of course it was;
we dropped everything as we rushed out the door.
A cutting board,
with apple slices now browned by their exposure to the air,
bananas now withering into nothingness,
and a knife,
dripping with the blood-red juice of a pomegranate.
Or was it her blood on the floor?
I breathed in the scent of the two day old pomegranate;
it was still sweet,
and it ****** me off.

I used to love my Sunday mornings.
Waking up,
getting out of bed
kissing her.
She was perfect,
and made even the simplest task,
such as cutting a pomegranate in half,
beautiful.
I’ve never seen her be anything except beautiful,
not even once,
not even as she grabbed her stomach,
where our beautiful flower bloomed,
not even as she screamed in pain.
She was the essence of everything fantastic, and whatever she did reflected that.
I used to love the smell of pomegranate.
It would wake me up,
and I would follow it down the hall,
to the kitchen,
and into the arms of my beautiful wife.
The pure, sweet scent reminded me of Sunday mornings,
and Sunday mornings reminded me of every reason
life was worth living:
Her
.
I was silent
as I began to clean the counter top off,
the apples went in the trash,
the bananas went in the trash,
but the pomegranate…
the pomegranate stared at me from where it was.
It burned a hole into me.
I picked it up,
and the very touch made me angry.
I  couldn’t bare the thought of it being near me.
Its sweet smell turned putrid in my hands.
I threw it as hard as I could,
its path going through the window,
and the glass made a sound I’ll never forget.
But the fact was,
I threw it out,
and it was gone.
The smell of pomegranate
would never be here again
on Sunday mornings.
And neither would she.

I watched 2am turn to 3am.
Everyone losing an hour of sleep,
and myself losing an hour of lying in my bed, thinking about you.

Funny how when it storms,
You’re lying in bed,
The lightning cracks,
The thunder shakes your walls,
And yet,
You feel safe.

Funny how when you’re in love,
You’re lying in bed,
Your heart aches,
The pain rattles your bones,
And yet,
You feel safe.

When all is certainly lost,
I remember that there is at least one person out in this world,
whose soul was made from the same ingredients as mine.
And you remind me of this every day that I’m sad,
when you offer me a piece of yours,
to mend mine that which is broken.

There once was a girl with rivers in her eyes.
She’d sit in a field and cry, cry, cry.
Her tears flooded the whole town
until she sank under her misery and drowned.

Her hair was made of the finest gold
Her dress of lace in a beautiful fold,
Her bones of silver under porcelain skin,
Her problems large and her happiness thin.

A boy full of butterflies and charm,
who wanted to cure her sorrow,
but what could be the harm,
in waiting until tomorrow?

He looked through her eyes and into her mind,
An entirely new universe of some kind.
Her thoughts blended into colors and lines,
And in her world everything was fine.

She tip-toed through the hallway,
And shuffled through the door,
But she couldn’t escape her heartache;
And she fell to the floor.

She drowned in her sorrows,
But floated up to the stars,
She danced on the sun,
And slept on mars.