“A solider wandering alone
Around people in masks
Like an innocent soul surrounded by evil spirits
No longer alone just merits in lockets”

In the back of my notebook
I'm writing letters of sorrow
Not sure what to call unavoided Tacenda
Help me escape this hysteric agenda

As the ink bleeds out of my pen
And the tears run into pages undone
The fear of forgetting and being forgotton
It's the race I’ll never out run

For the plot of your life isn't your choice
Questioning desires and is it really your voice
Directions you take make no sense
Is it truly there only for suspense

By: Zoulaikha

I'm your mothers favorite bad influence
Perfect and in line enough
to ignore the major red flags that should induce reluctance
and instead label me hard working and tough
the perfect girl to get to know

I'm who your father thought he would be
music that grates and teeth bared just sharp enough
an idea of who to be and the will to be free
smooth around the edges but inside too rough
the kind of seed in you he'd like to sow

I'm the disgrace with a pretty little face
and the intelligence to lie
and get by with just enough grace
so that one day this persona may die
as I fade from their neat little row

I step inside. The weight of past encounters shrinks the corridor. I brain-search for a safety behaviour to assuage the impending sense of doom. As if on a plane (‘count the seats between you, and your nearest exit’), I count the doorways between the entrance and my office as I walk forward.

Door one. Used all my leave days. Gone four weeks. Feels like much longer. Door two. Window ledges look unfamiliar. Doorhandles are strange. Door three. Was the carpet always this colour? Door four. The tight-wound wool ball in my chest clenches, the stretching yarn groaning like sailboat ropes in a north-westerly. Door five. I say chest, but to be specific, it’s the top of my sternum, bordering the jugular notch. Door six. The squeeze-groans are petulant reminders of why I went on leave. My omniscient manubrium warning call. Door seven. For the love of all that lives on God’s green earth, why are we back here?    

Why indeed. Door seven. Home base.

I sit at the desk and my mind crouches and crawls along the lonely, dark path. Back to the last time I was here. The last time I was hunted. Sludgy mud memories thickly bubble, burst, and liquefy before my eyes. So very thick and so very brown. Each pop a muted wet slap.

Then, another sound. From my computer. Just in front of me. I have an email.

My inner mud-bubble memory show responds. Now it scrolls through a parade of minor monsters. Possible email senders. My space and mind invaded by their correspondence. So very desperate and so very flawed in their attempts at functional adult interaction.

So very tantrum-primed, slander-keen, and gaslight-geared.

Mean-spilling, rage-channelling, drama-divers.
Breakdown one-uppers.
Accountability dodgers.
Monopolising guilt-trippers.

Lesser daemons.
Energy vampires.
Always thirsty.

This is where they hunt me. Door seven. My office. In emails, texts, calls, voicemails, and physical presence. High quality rendered. Dream reproduction ready. Technicolor.

To be fair, I’m top-grade prey. All squishy and caring. Softest-of-soft targets. The quintessential good listener. Ears for days. Psych-trained, chair-arranging, body language monitoring, tone-of-voice sensitive, feelings generator. Generous-portioned, silver-service dining. Tastes like sweet intentions, candied optimism, and bitter disappointment. Fear garnish for colour and crunch.

Now, I sit behind door seven. Waiting. Vibrating emotion...
I can feel them closing in…  

Please send instructions for establishing clear boundaries, guidelines for maintaining a mental distance, and chocolate.

Happy Halloween.