Just tell me I cannot hurt you.
Tell me I do not matter.
Me: fallen, broken, wingless.
I reached too close to the sun, and now....I
Cannot glue myself back together....For I am
Hurt. By my failed ambitions.
You                                                   ­                              ripped
away
Myself.

Today she broke down crying into a watermelon,
and as her spoon dug deep into it's tasty flesh,
tears collected in the corners of each eye.

And as the juices squirted onto her hands to run down her arms,
her shoulders shuddered.
And she cried.
And she didn't know why.
why why why why      
She whispered.
Her lips moving to repeat over and over again.

And I stood near to her,
and watched over her.

But I could do naught for her,
or her chest heaving, racked with sobs.
And her eyes gazed heavily somber.
And her lips trembling, cracking, disappointment.
And her spirit falling, crumbling.

I watched her all the while,
and stared,
where a woman,
a strong woman,
had confronted her inner demons,
and lost;
and was replaced by a shadow of herself.

Can you see it like I can,
a boasting child,
a boating child,
an accident
she drowned.

Down,
the bubbles escape,
race like red toy cars
as blood blossoms out ears,
and pressure builds,
and fingers reach upwards
                                                         ­                                        pop
where small fingers are glassed with soapy water
and white and blue frosting.
scribbled over red lettering, "Happy Birthday Meredith."
And cards were presented with pasts and futures,
torn open like a shark attack
and ripping skin,
flapping back like dog ears, as he sticks his head out the window
and howls at the neighbors
for their loud music ways.

Silent crashing waves,
that boom death metal
and ride tidal curls
that bounce off her head.

As she writhes,
a red ribbon in her hair.
Hair of spun gold
like the sun
smothered by the moon.

Darkness eclipses.

And the last of the air is pushed
through her lungs
for light has drifted away,
torn like a suckling pig from its ****
and she is lost.
As her body floats away, pulled down.

Unclasped, she roams free.
groans, "Meeeee. Find mee...eeeee."
And eels slither from her jaw,
agape and brackish blue,
like pirate ship wine
sunken *** and treasure troves,
and streamline red.

Adding to a salty complexity
of tarnished speckled metal
like speckled eggs.
And brown eyes
bore out by hermit *****
that broke their shells after a gluttonous feast.

Unbuttoning her dress
a flower paisley sort of thing,
a useless scrap of sodden material,
for nothing matters,
as she thinks nothing can hold on to her
now and before.

She is aware,
but not really there, because you would miss her
like you did when she stood in the hall,
your eyes passed over,
and so stayed her silent screams.

So she left our world,
or rather hovered and watched
as much as she could without eyes.
She watched you,
and felt nothing over your cries
because she feels nothing
Now.

Psychotic-ness
where in the abyss
can I fly to my dreams
where responsibility streams
like feathers through your hair
and dripping tears, Despair.
of lonely mid-spring nights
and tumbled breathtaking flights
that lead to stony shallow brooks
riddled with dead fish hooks
covered and soaked to the brim
spilling frothed foam
like sea water monsters
and seaweed tears.

Delete me from this life, oh please.
Borrow time,
acquire it from me,
Just press the top, far right key.

Delete me right off the page, oh please.
Carry forward in place of prime,  
forsake a single division towards normalcy,
acquitted free.

Delete me from this sentence now.
To let me stay would be a crime,
staying here stationary,
atop, alone, and windy.
Oh please.
                                                         ­                                                *Erase me.

As she sits there silently,
rocking back and forth
to and fro
in her wooden rocking chair.
Her eyes closed,
head pressed firmly into the patterned blue cushion,
pushed by her tense fists
that grip each sidearm
and threaten to leave marks
into the dullard rich grain
that smells like "childhood"
covered in dust mites.
Her feet propped up
on a matching rocking stool,
it's a set.
She used to lie flat on her stomach,
with her feet on the chair,
and her belly on the footrest,
backwards...I'm flying.
Now she's grown,
too awkward,
too sad.

He sits there
in an armchair
drooping with age
with memories sewn into its brown decor.
Smells like basement
and home.
Feels like creativity
when life wasn't so hard.
When its cushion and pillows held back the world
and a blanket provided a ceiling, that drooped,
until it plopped on his face
And he would climb out and fix it
because inside,
he was safe,
and happy.
Now,
his feet would be cold
and his head would break the roof
not that he has the imagination anymore
nor the time.

Sitting there,
with fingers dead
and withered
crackling dry,
voice depressed
heaving sighs with every sentence
and a general gloom about the room.
Perfectly still,
entirely quiet,
that stems from silence that is only apparent
after a presence has left
shed from a carcass growing cold
born anew to live a life till stretched and old
now a red neon sign lit up,
*"Vacancy."

Everyone is asleep
and here I am.
Not sleeping
Awake.

_ cannot write what _ want to say,
_ cannot paint the image in _ mind.
Or the feelings bound inside with thickened ropes,
used to hold a steamer ship to dock,
with diameter of a sailor's mid-waist,
encrusted with salt from the ever pressing fault
pulling its weight down compressing faces to frown
scrunching together in depressing formation as a flock of gull feathers
incessantly wash ashore bringing round to the lessening image
that draws you back from the metaphorical,
analogical, imaginary
oceans edge,
to the starboard side of a deck on a steamer ship,
to the battered ropes
that suppress emotions under.

Under an ocean,
occasionally escaping through thimble-sized samples
freed from the depths to race upwards in streamlined-bubbles
to break the surface and burst
that released
category three, Hurricane Miriam
which harmed no one but herself
because though she roared at one-hundred twenty miles an hour,
no one took warning.
Because who would be wary of her,
when she didn't even break land,
she didn't even break surface,
didn't even break in,
even break through,
break her,
broken.

-October Twenty-Second-
Dear Madame,
Here is your six am morning wake-up call
delivered via letter delivery by the bellhop like you requested
who took the stairs because the lift was out of service
to knock on your door even though it was on the top floor
so thank you for getting him to exercise
because he had to run up every flight of stairs in all.

Dear Hotel Manager,
I send my thanks to the bellhop for his early morning workout
to bring me my excuse to get up and greet the day with renewed vigor
because if he can overcome seventeen flights of stairs
I can climb out from the covers
and face the world free of doubt.
My Regards-Oct. 23rd

-November 1st-
Dear Madame,
As you so requested again
here is a letter regarding your early checkout time
to be happening on Tuesday November 5th
in the morning by half past ten.

-November Sixth-
Dear Madame,
Failure to comply with our notification
has been noted
since it is now Wednesday November 6th
and it has come to light
that you have not left the rooms
and adjacent guest have made complaints
of noise
and a most awful smell that seems
to be originating from within your boundaries
and so Madame
you will be removed tomorrow evening from the premises
by nine-o-clock sharp, without any hesitation.

-November Seventh-
Dear Madame,
Changing the locks is not allowed
and no amount of furniture bombarded against the frame
will keep us at bay for long
please just vacate  
and there will be leniency endowed.

November Eighth
Dear Madame,
We have called in a specialist
to break down the door
and remove you by force
to take you to jail
because by now,
as you must have realized yourself since you have stayed there,
the stench from you room has expanded
to encompass the entire floor
which is quite problematic
you troublesome narcissist.

(Her room is finally breached and her body is discovered.)

November Thirteenth
Dear Madame,
I never did ask your name
at check-in
with your ugly green steamer trunk,
all I could think was "Poor Jeffrey the bellhop has to carry that thing up seventeen flights of stairs because the repairmen aren't due till next week to fix the lift."
And you just stood straight,
with hands hidden in your deep burgundy trench coat pockets.
Softly spoken answers to every one of my questioning remarks,
The lift is broken, what floor would you prefer?*
(The uppermost floor if you could, sir.)
Would you prefer a nice or regular view?
(A view would be mightily enjoyable.)
Single or double bed?
Your eyes twitched and your mouth turned down
(Single.)
And so as you walked away,
I stared at your backside and made some inappropriate inner comments
about your body because you were beautiful. Apologies for that madame, but I guess your looks are what got you into this mess.
After all,
how was I, the manger here, supposed to know that you had been murdered.
I don't know what a decomposing human smells like,
or at least I didn't.
Although I am thankful you paid in advance for your room, it does not cover the charge of having to fumigate and replace the blood-spattered walls, carpeting, and bedspread.
And so Madame, in conclusion to this letter that I am currently writing, I will go to your funeral and toss this envelope into your grave in order to approach your relatives and
bill them for our costs.
Sincerely,
The Manager...who is not to blame.

Note: Her letter was later found in the removal of some desk drawers that had splintered when the bullets had ricocheted into the dark grain wood.

*To whomever does find this,
My apologies to the manager and the bellhop of this fine and fancy hotel
I had not meant to stay so long
but I have been running for some time
and a rest
back in my city was what I needed.
Unfortunately, if you are in fact reading this,
then my past
and my fears have found me
and I am dead.
Murdered presumably by
a most terrifying man...



...whoever he is.
-Oct. 30th

It was a flavorful month.
First with a delightful treat of Black Walnut,
followed by a week of chestnut.

The splendorous aroma
of cooking meat on a rotating spit
the sizzle as the juices dripped running down,
covering his fingers and wrists with grease and fat
to drip into the burning flame
of the fire he had sheltered near.

The night was cold
but the fire would warm him.
(I'm done. Spoke the meat to the bone. I can no longer stay here with you and listen to your ramblings and lost dreams. I'm leaving you, she whispered. The old bone gasped, stricken. Please, do not go.
He reached for her and grasped tendrils, holding on to nay release.
And so the bone held the meat, but just barely.

The spit was held still, a sliver of flesh carved off
nearly pulling it all.
A smile at his face, as he replaced his knife to a home of supple, tan leather
stained black with charcoal.
Still broad-faced, he shut his eyes and gorged.

After
hist beard stubble provided a maze for the drippings to puzzle,
tracing towards his chin to run and leap,
and splatter and soak into the hard packed dirt below.
It had not yet rained, for many span.
So the fire would burn.
And crackle,
and sear substance that was brought too near its boundaries.

How it liked to char.
Its scorching embrace,
meant to suffocate with smoking laughter
curling upwards toward the trees
spreading all throughout the land.
Imagining creatures hundreds of miles,
breathing in and knowing vulnerability when coughing tumbled topside
and shook their entire being until,
until they understood her power
and how she came to be.

As stated, it had not rained for quite some time,
seven years and thirteen days to be exact.
And so, seven years ago,
(for the rain that came held saturation up to the thirteenth day)
she sparked into existence.
Quite literally, remarking on the above statement,
a passing knight atop a stumbling steed was fumbling around,
unwittingly, he had taken a trip down river which his horse had not been thrilled about.
While being chased by a horde of grey goblin trolls,
after he had blundered into their hunting party
he decided to escape through a stream
he had heard they were afraid of running water.
But his information was wrong,
and the throng
chased him down,
till the stream turned to river which turned to faster until
waterfall.
And so they went and now were sodden and miserable.
He rode along until Cudge, his haughty horse, refused to budge.
So, he built a fire and the following morn he rode away without putting it out.
Along his route,
his flint stone happened to drop,
out of a saddle bag and onto a rock,
causing a spark to light upon a bed of dry leaves,
which led to the creation of our dear fiery friend.

She spent years collecting herself
after the Tinder War.
Briefly explained:
Another fire that was left to burn
did not want to share
any of the forest around where the road did turn
all should be his no other fire would dare
challenge him.
This was her first test
as she felt meek and small
her flames could not jest
against his that were tall
but she prevailed and tricked him.
Fueled with victory,
she became an inferno,
and raged with widespread havoc,
till one day she murdered a magpie,
perched on the forest floor her heat overwhelming,
till his soul escaped to forever fly the skies never landing upon the earth again.
Lusting with virtuous eyes
she eradicated and slaughtered
till she killed a village.
A lone survivor,
a child who could not see.
She cried tears of lost.
And brought flooding to the land that washed away the fire
till nothing,
but a spark was left.

The fire never forgot,
the pain,
the life she had snuffed out,
for what?
She changed her ways,
and lived out her days,
remembering her suffering faze as a young blaze.
But happy now
to provide company to this occasional traveler
and his trusty steed.

And so, encircling back (or forward we should considerately say),
to a month known as February which was particularly tasteful.
She, the fire, was enjoying her recent companions,
known as a knight and a horse called Cudge,
who had fed her planking from foreign floors
that tasted salty
from shipwrecks that had sailed to shore and he had carried for firewood.
Although she did not need wood to continue her life,
she relished the savory timber,
and in return provided a spirited heat to perfectly roast a pheasant.
Her name was Yori and she was fire.

The next night it rained.