I lifted my coffee mug from the cafe table as I commented on the snow, receiving a murmur and a nod in response. I looked into my mug and I watched the snowflakes fall into the coffee and quickly disappear among the liquid blackness. Why he wanted to sit outside, I had no idea. I went along with it though. I liked watching him stare into the white blankets that covered the dead grass next to the sidewalks. He stared into the ice, in deep thought. The looks that always seemed to grace his face were those of concentration and intensity. He broke his stare with the snow and looked up at me, with that smile that made his dimples show. He outstretched his arm over the table, grabbing my hand. We sat in silence as he traced circles on my thumb. I asked him what he was thinking about, and he asked me how the snow can be so pure in a city that is so *****. I told him I didn't know. I really didn't. It was in that moment, watching him think about the snow, that I realized I loved him.

Looking back on that day, a year in the future, in this same cafe at the same table, I realized the reason why the snow was so beautiful that day; we loved each other. Everything was beautiful. The snow is grey now, stepped on by muddy snow boots and filled with decaying leaves. I wonder if it had always looked that way, even on that day that seemed so blindingly white. Our love was beautiful. The world was beautiful. Now I can see my heart lying on the ground, stepped on by muddy snow boots and filled with decaying leaves.

The town I live in is not glamorous.
It is for the oil refinery workers, the ****-ups, and the hopeless.
You come here if you don't make it in the real world.
The cost of living is cheap and the value of life here is even cheaper.

The town smells of chemicals.
The refineries pump them out of the tall metal tubes that you see from the roof of your house.
Smoke fills your lungs and soon enough you get used to your cough.
You can't see the stars when you look up at night, the pollution took them away long ago.

The town is not safe.
Drugs flood the streets and the veins of the adolescents.
Families lock their doors at 5:30 P.M. and dare not come out until the sun rises.
The sound of screeching police sirens rock you to sleep.

But the town is beautiful.
On your nightly trips home you'll come over the bridge and you'll see the town in it's entirety.
You'll see how the smoke makes clouds above your head.
You'll see that the refineries light the city with their bulbs turned yellow from pollution.

The pain has become regular.
People know what to expect when they talk to me.
"I'm hurting."
"I need to rest."
"I'm going home."

The questions they ask me have become monotonous.
I have the story of my illness down to a tee.
"I've tried that."
"No, it never goes away."
"It's been about eight months now."

The doctors know all about me.
Out of the hundreds of patients they treat, I stand out.
"My pain is at an 8."
"I'm on my way to the hospital."
"My I.V. fluids need to be changed."

I'm used to spewing lies from my mouth.
It's become quite easy over the months.
"I'm fine."
"I feel a little better."
"I'll get well soon."

I've been taking my meds right lately.
The doctor told me I might forget things,
like the answer to a history question,
or the words about to leave my lips.

She didn't tell me I'd forget the color of your eyes
or the song we swayed to on prom night.
I didn't know I'd forget what I bought you
for our one year anniversary.

My head's been doin' real good lately.
But my memory seems to be shot.
Shot like the blood in your eyes
when you told me you don't know who I am anymore.

I'm in highschool, a time where change is as expected as the seasons. Always changing, same repetition. Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter. A never-ending cycle.

My Spring has  come and gone, the storms of thought sprung flowers in my brain and fresh leaves from my branches.
My Summer was sweltering, the fire in my eyes composed of the flowers being doused with gasoline. The passion grew until it reached a fever pitch.
My Autumn consisted of the leaves of my mind changing color, along with the hue of my hair and the shade of varnish on my nails. The pitch of my ambitions slowly sank to the sound of the wind.
In my Winter, the icy drifts snow-in my mind. My eyes can not see past my outstretched arm. The cold, numb feeling takes over my brain.

What if I am content with my flowers, or my fire, or my dull leaves, or my snow drifts? The flowers still wilt, the fire burns down to embers, the leaves fall from the branches, the snow melts away. Change is inevitable, and I'm never ready for it.

synergism* [ˈsɪnəˌdʒɪzəm sɪˈnɜː-]
n
1. The working together of two or more drugs to produce an effect greater than the sum of their individual effects
2. Christian theol the doctrine or belief that the human will cooperates with the Holy Spirit and with divine grace, esp in the act of conversion or regeneration

I sent a handful of capsules down my throat with the sting of alcohol.
The pills were meant to **** the pain whose source was long forgotten,
but one at a time just didn't work for me.
They needed something else.
So I indulged in an addict's fantasy.

The Doctors told me it was dangerous.
The warnings on the bottle did just the same.
I did it anyways.
"Don't drive your car, don't take them on an empty stomach. The side effects are poor."
but he didn't tell me who I'd see.

I closed my eyes and the numbness hit me.
And when I opened my eyes I could have sworn I was flying.
The ceiling above me breathed and exhaled.
It was then when I saw him.
I came face to face with whom I've come to know as God.

He was not what I expected.
This figure was not the almighty man that legend has made him out to be.
The folklore passed on for generations was wrong.
My Mother was a God-fearing woman,
and at this moment I understood why.

His hair was sparse and his skin was ghostly white.
The frailty of his body made my stomach tie in knots as I examined him.
Maybe it was the pills and the alcohol breaking each other down.
His eyes were milky blue and could not see me.
His mouth moved just as mine.

"Help me."

The habitual pain
in which I live my daily life
seems to mock me.

“You've had a good day?”
“Yes.”
Then the tremors of pain come.

Can I have a single day
where I don’t want to blow my ******* brains out?
It’d be less painful than this.

These nerves and neurons
hate my god forsaken guts
and every other part of me.

It’s like I’m malfunctioning.
My body and my brain
stopped cooperating long ago.