adjective

1. i never asked to be like this, consumed utterly. when i run out of ink i dip my quill in my own veins and scratch out beautiful, ethereal, unutterable words in crimson. passion and pain are interchangeable in my mind, each one bleeding into the other and through each other.

2. words forge my palace and my prison. i compose poetry and story and power, like a creature possessed. my pen flies across the page, like it has a mind of its own.

3. i run out of space on the page in front of me, filling my notebook, filling innumerable napkins at various cafés with half-formed thoughts and unintelligible scribbles. i ink 3am inspirations and epiphanies on my skin, up and down my arms, a living testament to my obsession, my mania.

4. i must move mountains and i have a teaspoon for a *****.

h.f.m.

I want to slip out of my skin
And sink into the coat of a doe
Tiptoeing past moss-trees
And through thorn-brush

I want to shed my skin
And don the scales of a serpent
Gliding through dappled-shade
And below autumnal-leaves

I want to disrobe my skin
And wrap myself in the pelt of a cat
Prowling in the half-shadows
And morning's false-dawn

I want to dissolve my skin
And absorb infinity into myself
Drifting through space-time
And and the never-never in between

h.f.m.

Just. Eat a bowl of cereal.
Sit on the kitchen floor carefully so the milk doesn't spill, scoop the flakes into your mouth by the streetlights filtering in through the window.

Or climb out onto the roof.
Slip out your window, hip braced on the edge, and use your arms to pull yourself up, crossing your legs on the shingles and breathing in the stardust swirling around your head.

Create a masterpiece.
Dip a brush in some paint, use your hands to shape clay, choreograph a dance, script a play, write a poem, draw a spring day.

Make a blanket fort.
Tuck the blankets over the couch, pad the floor with cushions, and flick on the TV, so you can watch cartoons while wrapped in warmth like when you were a child.

Stargaze in the backyard.
Tiptoe out the back door, quilt tugged tight around your shoulders, spread it out over the dewy grass and stretch out, facing the clouds and counting the stars.

Learn Morse Code.
-.-. --- -. ...- . .-. ... .     .-- .. - ....     -.-- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.     .. -.     - .... .     -.. .- .-. -.- --..--     -.- . . .--. .. -. --.     -.-- --- ..- .-.     ... . -.-. .-. . - ...     -... . - .-- . . -.     -.-- --- ..-     .- -. -..     - .... .     ... .. .-.. ...- . .-.     -- --- --- -. .-.-.-

Have a shower.
Run the water hot so it'll burn when it hits your back, shed your clothes and step into the steam, breathing in the vapors and imagining that you stand in the heart of a geyser.

Go back to sleep...?
No, this elusive peace is distinctly one with the night, and it would be foolish indeed to throw away such a gift merely to function during the bland sunlight hours.

h.f.m.

I am too young
Again
Using pictures to define
Myself, describe
Myself, explain
Myself, these words
Can no longer contain
Me, restrain
Me, sustain
Me, remain
In me, I revert back
To the languages of my childhood
(Infancy?)
Images, sounds, emotions, motions
Anything other than these coarse
Words, these ugly
Words, these inglorious
Words, that rend
My too-soft skin
Words that break
My fire-feather bones
"Speak" is synonymous with "Destroy"
And so the word
Is the most lethal weapon of all
I will keep my silence and do no more harm

h.f.m.

Life is an awesome/awful/awe-inspiring gift
Given freely, without conditions
A pulse is translated as spinning stars/singing starlings/stilling stardust
Blood of a universe under thin skin
Floating/Falling/Flying, we rise
To the constellations from whence we came
Freed from mortal shell/ringing bell/living hell
We are home

h.f.m.

If I were to die today
would I have any
regrets?
Would I wish for a redo
a chance to fix my
mistakes?

If I were to die today
would I feel a sense of
triumph?
Would I look back on
what I have done and feel
pride?

If I were to die today
would anyone
mourn?
Would anyone come
to my funeral and
cry?

If I were to die today
would I want another
life?
Would I wish to be
given a choice to be
reborn?

If I were to die today
would I do it all
again?

h.f.m.

Hey, me, congrats! You made it to 25!
I'm glad.

Remember when you were young and full of angsty anxiety?
Yeah, great times!
I'm still living it now, though.
I'm not looking back at it, like (lucky) you.

It'll probably be funnier in retrospect,
cause right now it sure isn't.
I'm sure your chuckling to yourself,
wondering at your own dramatics.
(Had you ever been that self-centered?
Thinking what you had was really that bad?)

You may not recall,
but you used to need to write up a
mental list of why you needed to
wake up in the morning, just to
get out of bed.
And when you did get out of that bed, finally,
your limbs felt so heavy with exhaustion
that you wondered if gravity would
pull you through the earth's crust
and cradle you in its core.
You'd have been grateful for the peace.

But you've left that all behind, yeah?
You're an adult, in your prime.
You've probably got a job by now, finished university.
You might be dating, heck, even married!
Planning on having kids?

Is life running along like a well-oiled machine?
Everything going along according to plan,
tick-ticking off the boxes on your check-list.
The world's your oyster!
(Yeah, we never knew what they meant, either)

Have any advice for little ol' me,
to get through this chaotic (insignificant) mess?
Not that you'd be able to give it to me.

You're so far ahead as to almost be unattainable.
But hey, you're me, right?
If I color between the lines, on the straight and narrow, breathe,
I'll catch up to you eventually, right?

I 'm allowed to want nice things?

I can be happy?

So, Me of January 2026
25 years, eh?
Can we make it that far?

Hoping and praying,
Me of May 2018

p.s.
I'm counting on you. Meet you there.

h.f.m.

My teeth are an enamel cage, bared in a pearl-polished snarl,
guarding the hateful words on my tongue—
my razor-tongue, craving blood drawn
from sharp wit and cutting retorts.

My voice is a savage, willful thing,
and unchecked wreaks chaotic, senseless havoc.
It would desecrate all that is holy with foul curses
and disparage friend and foe alike with vile slurs and slander.
Bitter irony and sarcasm are its weapons of choice
tearing into the flesh where it hurts,
where weaknesses have been laid bare,
an uncouth performance of a twisted humor
at the expense of everyone else involved.

And so I lock my lips and throw away the key
to prevent my keen eyes from becoming an accomplice to ******.
My voice would steal the secrets they see
and warp them into a mocking mimicry
to parrot to those who would only do more harm.

The syllables I speak are lethal.
I would rather be mute than wound with my words.

My teeth are an enamel cage, bared in a pearl-polished snarl,
guarding the hateful words on my tongue.

h.f.m.