I stare at myself in the mirror
decomposing.
The taste of decay still lingers in my mouth
like a hangover
I reach in
and yank out another rotted tooth.
I toss it in the cup with all of her other little trophies.
I peel what’s left of a layer of skin
from my shoulder.
Remnants of what my bed took last night
as I tossed and turned and screamed for her
to come back to life
and make mine whole again.
I ache
I dare not crack my knuckles
for I may break loose another finger.
My friend says to get out
but I’m unready to set foot in the sun
not like this.
Not when I should be dead.
I feel like the milk in my fridge
passed my expiration date
but still here
because someone’s too busy
or lazy
to throw me away.

You say
“If both she and I were dangling by our feet
over an active volcano
and you only had enough time to save one of us
which would it be?”

“Well…honestly?”
I ask
You nod.

“Neither of you.”
I answer bluntly.
“I’d freeze up.
I’d start thinking past the choice,
because the choice is too hard to make
I’d recite what I’d say at your funerals over and over
and I’d  just deal with the responsibility of my inaction.”

You leave a red hand print across my face
and do not speak to me for the rest of the day.
I learn that you don’t want me to be honest,
you want me to choose you.
I’ll make you breakfast and apologize
in the morning.

For now, I’ll sit here in self-pity
maybe finish the book I was reading
before you interrupted me
to ask that stupid question.

The first time we met
was on the playground
at Lakeshore Park.
You were six
and I was seven.
You shared your ice-cream cone with me -
Vanilla-Chocolate Swirl.

We met again a decade later
in high school,
neither of us remembered the incident at the park
until our parents showed us pictures
of us covered in the stuff
holding hands.

We stayed best friends for a three years
because I was too chicken-**** to ask you out
but somewhere along the way
our unbreakable bond came undone
you drifted off to some Ivy League school
and I stayed here
convinced I could find another way out.

After that, I pretty much forgot all about you.

That is until today,
I was at the park with my niece,
and I thought about you
I sent you a message on Facebook -
asking if you were back in town.

Then, in anticipation of our reunion,
I read what people were posting on your wall:

“Rest in Peace. You will be missed.”

…****.

I glance out of my driver’s side window
and see a boy
trudging miserably down the sidewalk
his essence radiating awkwardness
this long haired kid, maybe twelve years old
or just turned thirteen
wore hand me down boots that are too big for his feet,
ripped jeans, and a bookbag slung across his shoulder
in the dying days of July
whispering under his breath
maybe reciting poetry
or telling himself a story

And I honestly think
if time is fluid, like the oceans
like the monks say
then maybe I’m glancing over as a wave breaks
and I’m looking at myself
I couldn’t tell you how many times
I made that journey on foot
my heels throbbing, my legs begging to be broken
my hitchhiker’s thumb, had given up all hope at that point

I think about giving myself a ride
to wherever I may be going
but then I remember all the lessons I’ve learned
from time-travel movies
the one universal rule being not to meddle with the past
something about a butterfly’s wings flapping in Beijing
and a tsunami in New Orleans
or whatever
so, instead I honk my horn
and the traffic light turns green

I watch the boy, who might have been a younger me
in some distant past,
look on with curious anger as the cars pass
for a moment
then return to the story already in progress

he grows tinier and tinier
in my rear view mirror
until he is yesterday again

“One thousand words.” He said “that’s the going rate.”
I looked down at it in my hand.
Taken back to the day it was first shown to me.
“What if it’s burned?” I asked.
“Burned?” He asked. “How burned?”
“Not very, just around the edges.” I explained.
“Like, it was saved from a fire. Would it be worth more, then?”
“Well, no.” He answered, matter-of-factly.
“What it it’s old.”
“Old?” he asked. Leaning forward, now engaged. “How old?”
“What if what used to be white is now turning yellow.
and what used to seem new now looks antique
and she looks so young that you think it can’t be her.”
“Well…” He paused, thinking it over – or pretending to.
“No.” He finally decided, leaning back into his position of power.
“One thousand words. That’s the going rate.”
“What if…” I searched it for any other idiosyncrasy “It’s autographed.”
“Like – half in cursive and half printed – and the ‘I’ is accented by a tiny heart.”
“That’s tempting, but rules are rules, and rates are rates.”
He smiled, enjoying my pain too much.
“It’s worth a thousand words. No more, no less.”
“What kind of words, I mean do I get to choose them?” I said
“Mostly fluffy words, not very heavy handed words. Not five dollar words.
Just our two cents worth.” He said through his grinning teeth.
The thought of her being reduced to one-thousand two-cent words made me ill.
So I left and took the picture with me.
I wandered and pondered and got lost
finding myself
at that pier she used to talk about, where she first met my father.
The sight there had to be worth twenty thousand words, in French.
I don’t speak French.
So I did not understand why it was beautiful
only that it was.
So it was there and then that I decided I would set her
priceless and free.

I find my serenity
On the beach
Swinging alone
Nearly hypnotized
By the rhythmic squeaking
Of the metal chains
That keep my floating in the sky
Of my mind’s eye
I try and listen past it
For the sounds of the lake
Although I cannot hear them
Over the machines
Tearing down a nearby building
That used to be my school
I find the racket soothing
Interesting
The way the sounds clash
With the chain’s music

I open my eyes
It’s not a sunny day
Dark clouds are rolling in
Over the horizon
It’s going to rain
I don’t mind too much
As long as it’s a warm rain
I’d like that
If it’s not
I won’t complain
This moment
Won’t be any less perfect

They sat across the table from one another. One girl staring at her notebook. The other’s eyes fixed on her classmate. On the broadside of the table sat a dark haired woman, the only smiling face in the room. The shy girl’s crimson hair hung out from under her hooded sweatshirt as she sketched axes on the front of her notebook. The other girl’s golden locks hung in curls around her face. Her beauty was undeniable, as was the disdain in her eyes.
“So, can one of you two describe to me what happened today on that stairwell?” asked Mrs. White, the guidance counselor at Jacob Grimm High. Despite the gossip floating around the school about her, a smile was always plastered on her face. Most of the children found this unbearably creepy. “Nothing ma’am. We were just having a friendly conversation, when that pig came along and insisted, very forcefully, that we come here,” the blonde said, sarcastically, her eyes never letting go of their gaze on the other girl.
Mrs. White chuckled “That’s not how it happened, Goldie. C’mon, tell us your side of things.” Goldie rolled her eyes. “Well, Mrs. White, it’s like this: my bio class was just letting out, and I was heading down to calculus. She comes flying UP the DOWN stairs, like a maniac, slamming into my shoulder. I hit her, she hit me back. Now we’re here.”
“Is that true, Ms. Ridinghood?” asked Mrs. White, turning her head to the other girl.
“Not entirely,” she answered, finally joining the conversation. “Ms. Princess here was going up those stairs before I even got to them. To be honest, I was zoned out, just following the sheep. I’m not having the best day, so a friend gave me something to take the edge off this morning. I was following her up the down stairs, apparently and she turned around and started coming at me, shoving my shoulder as she walked past, then got offended – like I did something wrong – and hit me. So I punched her back. We wrestled for a minute before the rent-a-cop came and broke it up.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. White turned to Goldie, who was looking down the floor. “Goldie, why were you going back up the stairs?” ,
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“So you did go back up the stairs and come down a second time?”
“It was actually my third time,” Goldie admitted, embarrassed. “The first time I went too fast, the second time I went too slow. That time would have been just right. I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder . Go ahead, laugh it up.”
“No one’s laughing,” Mrs. White assured her. Although Red was a little, until Mrs. White turned to her. “Can you tell me why it is you needed to be ‘zoned out’ today?”
“None of your business, that’s why,” Red snapped.
“I have read your file, I know what day it is.”
“Then why did you have to bring it up?” Red was now agitated.
“For Goldie to hear. So you can better understand one another.”
“*******! What kind of understanding am I to get from this preppy ***** with a silver spoon up her ***? I’ve spit puddles deeper than her!” The two girls rose up, over the table. Mrs. White was able to get in between them.
“Now, both of you need to just calm down and talk this out like civil adults. Keep in mind, this is your only alternative to expulsion. “
Once everyone regained themselves, Red spoke again, this time directly to Goldie.
“Six years ago, today, my grandmother was murdered.” Goldie began to see Red with new eyes. “Remember The Wolf
“That guy who went around vandalizing houses?” ?”
“Yeah. He was hiding out in the woods. I was going to visit my grandma, who lived out that way. I saw him. He’d shaved so I hadn’t recognized him from the news. I told him I was going to my grandma’s place, dumb idea—I know. He suggested a different route, said it’d be shorter. By the time I got there, grams was gone. He was in her bed, dressed like her, waiting for me. His eyes…were so…big. If it wasn’t for Larry, a woodsman working nearby, I would be dead too.”
“I heard about that! That was you? Wow…I’m sorry. ” Goldie shook her head in amazement, then added, “Didn’t the woodsman chop off his head?”
“No. He shot him. Larry carries a gun when he’s working in that forest, because of all the dangerous things that happen there.”
“No doubt, that place is freaky. I got lost in it once, when I was six. I ended up at this cabin. I thought it was abandoned. Imagine my surprise when the family came home. I was sleeping in the kid’s bed, and I’d eaten their food too. I think I even broke something.”
“How’d that play out?”
“I did some time in juvy for property damage and theft.”
“Wow…that’s so messed up. At least you learned your lesson, right?”
“Oddly enough, no. When I turned eleven I started breaking into people’s houses. I mean, I didn’t take anything, just slept in their beds, or watched TV. I never got caught again.” Goldie sounded mildly disappointed.
“You know,” Red interjected “we are a couple of freaks, aren’t we?”
“Yeah. Hey…where did Mrs. White go?” Goldie said, finally realizing that Mrs. White had made an escape somewhere in the midst of their discussion.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh well…did you hear she has seven midgets living with her?”
“That’s just a rumor,” Red said.
On that note, the bell rang, and the two girls left the room giggling like old friends.