G'day from prison!*
(before I knew he lives on):

I see you there, My Maple.

Your little skirts; your peroxide hair.  Sweet, quiet Maple... I see your fishnet, maroon, little sweater. How I loved that thrift-store garment; it gave purpose to us both. For you, an excuse to see, without being seen. A voyeuristic excuse, for myself, to see without being seen.

If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t know this.

I picture your starkness. Dark, ten year old Maple. Listening with wide eyes - as I validated you.

As no one else had before.

I nurtured that Goth infatuation that no one wanted, fed you music: your Evanescence covet. Your black fingernails... Even then, I understood what no one else could.

Yummy, tasty, Maple.

How good you smelled; how fresh you smelled. Clean, and sad. Searching for reassurance. Searching eye's, searching for me.

Searching for someone. Anyone. A real person; content to SEE you, and love you anyways. Not like the rest; all of them - who'd only ever cast you aside - pick you last - call you names, spit in your face, lock you out and alienate you; who’d kick and shove you.
The *someones behind why you, at age ten, began to wish you were dead.
I was there, and I was your best friend.

Me.

I was the best friend you'll  ever have. Someone who loved an anomaly, and understood, and loved you best; over your mother - your sister - I told you I had a crush; a crush for only you.

10 years have lived and died between us.

10 years without me.

And the weight of time has yet to alleviate.

You still wish you were dead.

I still feel your warmth; the little bundle of you.

You.

You in your cozy, blue bed, with your
curious eyes and porcelain face. I would slip five dollar bills under your pillow; tell you, “I’ve hidden something secret.”  

I adorned you with money, pampered you with special trinkets, allowed rare privileges disproved by your mother... A mother who hadn’t a clue you’d worshipped angry rap since the age of eight. She didn’t know. You idolized Eminem. She’d yet to learn his name. You wanted to see 8 Mile; your mother said no – Rated R – so it was our little secret.

But you betrayed our secrets, didn't you?

We have no secrets anymore.



I see you there.

The soft, supple skin of your back . . . of your stomach . . . and of what lay below.

“What’s down there?” I’d inquired.

So enamored, exploring the secrets of your little body.

My demure, sad Maple.

I was your one and only true companion.

I was your one, and only friend.

Yet, here, in this cell, you will never see your best friend again.

You will never have a best friend again.

For in this cell, I have nothing left, but to remember.

I have nothing left but to write.

All my love, my presents, my company. All to end up here.

Here, behind bars.

And the weight of time has yet to alleviate.

You still wish you were dead.

But you and I - we've become synonymous.

Together, forever.

Just as I said, ten years ago. For, no matter what, my existence will always define you; and yours - you will define mine.

Forever.

You'll never be rid of me, and you can never leave me.

For I'll never leave you.

Our bond is solidified.

Perpetually.

Together forever.

Ten years. Eleven, twelve. The calendars change, but you and I? We’re right where we left each other.

So you'll never be anything. Anything at all. Anything else but mine.

The weight of time won't ever alleviate.

And you STILL wish you were dead.

- Thomas Gregory Brown, G'day from prison

Just look at me now.
All gift wrapped, and such
Do you like what you see?
Cause I don’t, very much.

                    As the lying won’t cease
                    And my truth is horrific,
                    You don't want to ask me
                    To be more specific. . .

So I’ll say goodbye
And tell you to go;
Don’t look for a truth
You won’t want to know.

Once upon a time.

           Once upon a time there lived a young girl. A girl who believed that words could be mastered. This girl was young enough to confuse love with addiction – for in her mind, she knew no difference. She created symbols and motifs wherever she went. Speech failed her, but words did not. And more often than not, she listened, but did not hear a thing. When she listened, however, she maintained an untarnished faith in the words she heard.

           She was coasting fourteen when she encountered the master of words. He was disguised, however, as an unremarkable seventeen-year-old. His presence solidified a stereotype; he was older, darker, and lurid in his quest for love. Spun from his lust of literature, the boy could read with college leveled comprehension by the time he’d reached sixth grade.

           Once upon a time, a young girl met a boy whose charisma was nothing short of magic.

           Within the time they exchanged, she was too young, and he was needy, broken, and wildly manipulative. Their connection was catalytic and in some instances, he fell in love with her innocence, whilst she grew addicted to his words.

           Words; so trivial, so redundant, and so simple. Yet, so inexplicably controlling. In the same instance that sticks and stones could break her bones, his words would eternally mark her. His words, which enabled her addiction. Words that made it okay to leave her for another, to appear again, only to leave all over again. Words that – months later – talked him into her psyche, away from her companions, away from her family, her academics, her normalcy. Into a space where his redundant sweet-nothings ensnared and enveloped her whole. Into a space where she remained, waiting for the fix she could only find in his mind. Once upon a time, the master of words cajoled this young girl into a space which grew so vast, he eventually couldn’t fill it, so he left.

           On the brink of demise, she examined her feeble body. Within, she found the extra spaces. These spaces weren’t obvious; there were no gaping holes or severed chunks visible. Rather, her body was ravaged by innumerable chasms and hollows, small enough to overlook and large enough to define her; cracks in the foundation. Perhaps a gaping hole was preferable – the equivalent to a broken heart – consuming, but easier to pinpoint and remedy. One large hole in a wall can be filled in. But these cracks she felt, this empty space, it unsteadied her entire foundation.
Nine months into her word addiction, the girl could be found festering within hollows. Miles away from her former self, she dwelled within expired voicemails, his notes, his letters. She knew she had no one to blame but herself, but she blamed him anyways.

           Once upon a time, there lived an extra space in which a girl resided; a girl who was not only surrounded by extra space, but filled with it as well. There lived a recovering word addict. Subsequently, this was all her fault, which she realized in the saddest of circumstances. Yet, she slowly learned to fill the extra spaces with distractions. She encountered drugs, new friends, an environment where she sometimes belonged. She remedied her schoolwork, resurrected her family’s trust, and quenched her addiction with masochism instead. Yet, this new foundation stood a mere ghost of the old one. Within her psyche, there remained cracks and holes and the decaying animal of innocence. As some cracks were filled in, new ones spread forth. Her disrepair did not increase nor decrease in the years to come. Rather, it spread to different locations, as she patched and filled along the way. She strived to fill the void; and yet, nothing she tried, no pain she inflicted and no other drug she tried could fill the extra space inside of her. The foundation of her psyche remained perpetually flawed.

           Months later, the master of words returned. This time, he faced a girl who had been thwarted and mastered by his words, and had grown bitter and stronger. Greeted by this unfamiliarity, he left. Only to come back, and then leave, and return, and then leave again. Frequenting her enough to make sure the extra space remained. As the girl lived on, his magnitude faltered. Somehow, the boy lost his words, and mastered silence. This was mind boggling. How someone who was once defined by charm and charisma could lose his voice. How the master of words could become a pantomime of the past, lost enough to cease speech entirely. Lost enough to master silence.
          
           Once upon a winter night in the midst of February, the boy finally grappled to re-master words, and seek the extra space, so long reserved for him. He picked up a phone, wrote some long forgotten words, and she came to rediscover him – wondering if his words could rekindle her space. They sat on a bed of formalities and spoke of nothing. Later, when he kissed her, she realized something; this boy was human. He was not an addiction, or a master, and he had no talent of filling up her emptiness indefinitely. Whether she had put him on a pedestal or he had schemed it, she never knew. Her crucial realization was that no one can master words. Words are merely filtered thoughts, twisted and abused by manipulators, such as the boy who became human. Most words are not genuine. They cannot be mastered because they are infinite.
          
           Extra and speechless, she realized that she was not a victim to any of his actions. She had invited him in, fell every time for his words, created a void, and welcomed him back whenever he saw convenience. He was nothing special, nothing to crave, just a boy. A boy whose words disagreed with his thoughts.

           The next day, she lost her complete and utter faith in words. And years later, she would write books and letters; ones he could not fill.

(The Art of Failing Goodbye)

I covet your closeness; how could I not? You were my world once upon a mime. Honestly. Though my pride will deny it, our demise left me discarded. Hiding amongst the few collateral souvenirs: stupidity and bitterness.

I bestowed to you the best of me; although you never asked me to. My heart, body, and soul - yours for the taking - a decision made on my own accord. Because you never asked me for any of it. You never asked me to do the things I did. But I loved you - innocent as that. Thus, relinquishing logic entirely.

Hardly more than a stranger, I felt I knew you; unaware of the lidded fabulist within. A mere tourist of my chassis; enthralled by my looks. Enthralled by just me. “In love” so deep, you attempted suicide twice. Upon my rejection – in theory. They almost beat you to death, and left you to the wolves. Deserved it? An understatement tenfold. And yet. My compassion was what saved you.

I protected the same entity who pulverized my own.

They all said you were no good – they said a mythomaniac would leach onto me until there was nothing left, ****** dry – then you would leave. Onto the next; life on the move. Daddy said you’d leave me in shambles. Was he right?

…Duh.

A question sheathed in rhetoric; absolutely. A black hole does not give back. Wake UP, m Maple – Ali – Oliver – whatever you are today.mWake up, you ******. And look here.

You ruthied(sp?) me last Halloween, took my body as your own, enabled a cycle I’ll no longer accept. The girl who cried ****…an alias to forever haunt me.

No one believed me then. Why would they now?

This final hurrah; a Halloween blackout. Wherein, you personified my worst nightmare. A cruel and unusual punishment – at best. And then.

You slithered and slinked away; no apologies – no goodbye for me. You’d taken all of me. Just like they said. All my value – dismembered and pocketed. Off you went…as predicted. Onto the next…life on the move.

You etched your gimmick; smuggling trust; squirreling intuition - these morals I'd entombed - you burrowed away. Promising Eden, you offered a map; directing me as I sailed the route. The garden, however, was not what I found. My catafalque(coffin) negated expectations you set; a utopia of dazzling, abundant nature. For, you'd devised a mousetrap; and I'd glissaded willingly inside…

For the very last time, gaze entwined. Blue on brown.

SNAP.

An instant such as that, god only knows how much it had hurt. I resolved on a plan, a terrible, disgusting plan. One that required me to push away my conscience and semblance of self entirely.

A plan which left me ultimately heartless.

Oliver Starkweather, the only boy in the world. He had taken the part of me which made me more vulnerable to him than anyone else. Not only that, he was the only person I felt that I truly cared about, the only person, family included, that I could even begin to imagine using the word love on. The only entity that could ever hurt me. And that realization tied me to him forever.

Yet, that made me weak when I wanted to be strong, controlled when I wanted to control.

I had discovered a secret in a week that Oliver hadn’t in a year. His father; rich, generous, and virtually absent from his life, had a small additional house built on their property. Something he’d told me once was, “My dad works in sales.” At night when I couldn’t sleep, I took to exploring their big empty house. One week into my stay, I dared to venture out into the newer one. It was there that I discovered the bookcase. It appeared normal, every book on the shelf was dusty and ridiculously boring looking. The rest of the room had similar bookshelves with similar looking books, but they were mixed in with vibrant titles and a more alluring collection. From there, I began taking down books off of the shelf and flipping through them. The majority were as boring inside as they were out, but the fifth one I collected - which came from the top right corner - turned me whole perception upside down.

Being a morbid little girl, I had always been fascinated with taboos. I would sneak into my dad’s office at night and search words on his computer. Words like gore or ******* or drugs. When I opened that book I knew instantly, even at fourteen, that a book with all the inside pages cut out and baggie after baggie of white powder inside meant trouble. On the shelf, I found three more secret stashes. After that I’d seen enough.



    When the autopsy was performed, the results read drug overdose. My tracks were well covered, for Oliver’s dad assumed Oliver had been secretly dipping into his bookshelf. Dealing was a felony that Mr. Starkweather was not about to risk, so he confessed that Oliver had been struggling with a drug problem. Sweet, demure, heartbroken me was sent back home, and years of therapy brainwashed me into so much denial that I was able to bottle up the entire story and force myself to forget. Deep down, I’d always known, but my mental unrest defied that.

Consequently, he returned. Maybe karma drove me crazy, maybe it was guilt.

But more than anything, it was probably loneliness.

Taking your life was the most selfish and selfless thing I have ever done and will ever do. Oliver and I, we shared the mutual consensus that no one in the world had ever loved us as much as we loved each other. Moreover, we understood one another; we shared the commonalty of unstable upbringings, of neglect, and most pertinently, of loneliness.

We’d dually been abused, rejected, and abandoned by those who were supposed to be our caretakers and guardians and parents. Perhaps, that in itself was how we’d grown such an indestructible bond.

And yet.

I saw a glint of a monster inside of you. The previous night. A manifestation of the horrors you’d faced, suddenly channeled through you. From that moment onward, I began to understand the truth. All of the anguish you’d survived may one day define you. One day, the innocence would be gone and in its place, the product of your childhood would be born.

On the last morning of your life, who you were, was living proof of good. Proof that a person could exist so pure, and kind to the very core. The best and most honorable person in my life. The only friend I’d ever known. I wanted to preserve your memory; a perfect relic, never to be tainted by the evil which would one day consume you.

I knew that as you lived, you were the only entity I’d felt genuine compassion for. The only human I’d ever loved. The only person in the whole world who could ever hurt me. That vulnerability ran like
poison through my logic.

And so, I resolved.

(Inspired by
a lifelong stranger)

These chronicles slinked from her chassis
– the mythomaniac;
she sold every copy.
Stories only fabulists could ink,
sealed within her schticks.
She enthralled every reader;
her cossets: spellbinding.
The husk of an angel
masked
THE Pariah within.
Caped in pretense,
lidded,
she skulked.
The blossoming killer…
Come
Hither.

And yet.

Your web of lies was spun so thick
It's you,
up there,
Ensnared.
You wrote the rules, cunstructed the game, invited the whole world to play.
But in the end
it was YOU
who
lost.
❤️

Welcome to the house of addictions: please, leave your assumptions at the door. . .

             I emptied my pockets
I sorted the change
                My conscience receding
Mentality, deranged

                A straw in my nose
And a blade in my hand
                The velvet of breathing,
Crushed on command

                A line of white rabbit
Appears on my desk
                Clean, and well sorted,
Yet I am a mess

                If a substance is stronger
Than myself, alone,
                Perhaps I should ***** it
Addictively prone

                For, the path of assumptions
Undoubtedly leads
                To the house of addictions
In which you’ll find me. . .

In the time you were gone, I found myself filled with extra space. Nothing too obvious; not gaping holes in my stomach, nor chunks from my arm. Rather, they were minute cracks that ensnared me. These unwanted holes appeared at random; when someone spoke of sandwiches, I felt a soft ***** in the back of my mind. When I encountered a full moon, I felt a throb in the tips of my fingers. And sometimes, when I caught sight of a dollar bill, a pang of nostalgia bit me somewhere deep down in my chest. This discomfort never lasted long. These cracks never formed one excruciating pain – the kind that fully consumes, but diminishes over time like a large hole in a wall that will soon be filled in. These cracks I felt, this empty space, it affected me demurely. As some cracks were filled in, new ones spread forth. My disrepair did not increase nor decrease in the years to come, but rather, spread out to different locations, as I patched and filled along the way. My foundation as a person grew perpetually flawed, yet remained stable enough to stay upright. My eventual remedy was to simply remember this; I am a structure made of concrete. Wear me down, and all you get is more concrete. In this way, it was okay that you were gone. In this way, I discovered the weight of time and also, the art of saying goodbye.

Uh


Guess who's back
Back again
Maple's back back back
Tell a friend