this is panic:

your heart forgets how to beat,
every muscle in your body tenses, sets a good example
your throat closes so your foolish heart can't escape --

you know you're not lucky enough to die like this, but you still hope it'll be over soon.

five years later and you think you should understand by now --
wait. did you think there was an answer? did you think this staccato heart of yours, these sweaty palms, actually meant something?

you must be new here.
*kid, they're gonna eat you alive in the Real World.

we are constantly at war with one another like this: a needle against my heart, a knife against her neck. she smiles something dark – almost deranged, even – and still my hand holds steady against her pulse. I do not know how I manage it when the needle in hers pierces ever so slightly as a warning, the weight of it against me sharp and static.

“further,” she laughs, shrill screeches echoing into my ear. a flash barely registers in my sight, and the movement of silver is too fast for me to stop – something within me begins to bleed. first dripping, and then gushing; but even an explosion would make no difference at this point.

we both know blind instinct moves my hand in response, splitting skin from her in retaliation. it is not red but black that pours, her manic expression growing as the liquids pool around us; murky and desolate.

I cannot tell who screams louder after that – but it is with a desperation that mirrors mine. to live? to die? the pitch shatters glass around us and shards force their way into our skins, yet it does not hurt; it has not for a very long time.

a pause, and then the words slip out of our mouths at the same time before I even register it:

“no, I am okay. I am still me.”

-

“I think it’s funny how they say the scariest monsters are the ones under your bed, when clearly the true monsters are the ones that live in your head.”

(A.H.Z)

If you look in the dictionary,
Home is defined as; a house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person, family, or household.
I’m usually one that goes by the books but, in this case, the book is wrong
A home is much more than a place that you live.
Home is the peaceful sound of classical music blasting through the apartment we shared.
Home is the smell of earl gray tea and chocolate chip cookies early in the morning.
Home is headlights shining through our window as we sat in the living room talking quietly about anything and everything.
Home is the layer of dust that covers the windowsill of our old bedroom.
Home is an old worn down couch, faded in color but not in memory.
Home is the arguments we got in when we talked about politics.
Home is boxes of countless memories: pictures of him, the ashtray from the palace, his scarf.
Home is the love I feel for him and the love he hid from me.

If you ask my sister, she’ll tell you love doesn’t exist, it’s a waste of time.
I learned a long time ago not to listen to her, her heart was broken since she was young.
I know that love exists, I knew it existed the moment I met him
From the day, I got cold chills when he grabbed my hand as we ran away from the crime scene.
From the morning, I woke up from a night of nightmares and the smell of bacon and eggs greeted me, he never cooked, for anybody.
From the moment he first cried in front of me, he woke up from a nightmare alone and cried out my name, he never did tell me what it was about.

If you asked the public, they’ll tell you he was emotionless, a machine disguised as a person.
They didn’t see the side of him I had the pleasure of seeing.
The childish side of him when he was eating a bagel drenched with honey.
The sleepy side when the mongrels woke us up with their obnoxious barking.
The calm side of him as he composed music, notes flowing easily from his mind onto paper and then the violin.
The quiet side of him when I cleaned his wounds, ashamed of himself but too proud to say it out loud.
The scarred side of him when he learned that there was a shooting at my work.

If you ask me, I’ll tell you that normal days are the ones you want to remember.
They’re the ones that you’ll miss the most when you’re alone.
They’re the ones I remember the best.
The day we picked up a hitchhiker for the hell of it, despite the smell of oil and tobacco coming off of him.
The day we walked through the park, the only sound was the crunch of leaves under our boots as we walked the many paths through the woods, getting away from all the noise and hustle of the city.
The day we sat on the bridge the crisp morning air causing us to sit close together,  with tea and biscuits,  watching as the fog danced across the Thames river, talking about what to do with the rest of our day.
The day his brother came to visit, his stern and angry voice being overthrown by my loud laughter at his attempts to scare me away.
Didn’t he know that there isn’t anything he could say or do to make me stop loving his brother?

Loving him was the best decision I ever made.
To this day, I haven’t regretted a moment of the time we spent together.
He tried to drive me away, thinking I would run as fast as hell the first chance I got.
He tried everything he could think of, almost beheaded me with his sudden interest with medieval torture tools.
The loud thuds of god knows what all throughout the nights, waking me from dreams of the culprit.
Going missing for days on end without a single call, only to come back hungover and grumpy.

Through all of this I stayed by his side and slowly he came to realize that I wasn’t going anywhere.
Once he came to that conclusion he began to open up to me more.
Letting me see behind the mask he wore for everyone else.
And I slowly fell more and more in love with the man everyone else hated.
The taste of I love you on my tongue every day, almost slipping a couple of times.
Now I wish I let it slip into conversation.
Two years ago was when he fell.
Two years ago was when my love was ripped from me so suddenly, I couldn’t believe it.
Two years of pain and heartache.
Two years of missing my best friend, my only friend, really.
But even after two years, I still love him, I still want him here with me.

So listen to me when I tell you this.
Home is not just a place, it’s a feeling.
Love is not just a feeling, it’s a person.
People are not just people, they’re memories.
Memories are not just the big ones, they’re the normal days that seem like nothing.
Take my advice and live every day like it’s your last.
Confess your love to the one you love.
Follow your dreams, even if they seem impossible.
Because life is unpredictable and fate is a cruel thing.

His table
Is dented
And thoughts circumvented
By lingering memories
Of dropped self-inventions
A scholar, who sits
In quiet despair
Lacks joy in his heart
With grey in his hair
He pursued his dreams
But better than thou,
He stood on the beams
And preached to them how
His way or none
Go home, Coke and ***
He can't figure why life
Is boring hum-drum

She still remembers the day,
That her world collapsed around her,
With a big crash.

However,
Even a stronger memory than that:
She remembers the day,
That she looked at the rubble,
Left from the life she once lived,
And decided it was time,
To start over again.
And this is where her journey began.

She picked her heart up from the wreckage,
And sewed it back into place.
Now here she stands,
Fearless today.

it doesn't matter your skin tone,
your religion,
your life.
Because I am not you and You are not me,
so what are we to judge each others realities?
We live on this planet together,
using its resources dutifully,
So why fight and badger another's exigency?
There's no real war between each other,
we all have sisters,
fathers,
brothers,
mothers,
Its within our minds,
that we create these differences,
The human race cast upon the hate.
Not god,
Not the government,
Man.
We are the monsters that created this mess,
and if the only difference between us is luminosity,
then its our own dumbfounded minds that created this tangibility.