Loaded gun, sharp knife.
Have you come to my aid?

Alone, lonely, dispersed, sola, isolated, estranged, departed, emptied, hollowed, alienated...echoes inside a house that was never a home.

There were two rooms, no, three. One was lived in, one uninhabited and the last one was empty. The third one filled with clutter and failures, hopes that never took flight and goals that wilted. This one was cold. Life can't flourish during winter, this room never bloomed. A room attached to the house but navigating on its own.

Boxed inside a body, chained with crippling thoughts. Walking among many and forever pacing alone. Everything moves so fast. Face down, avoid their eyes, move faster, lower your tone, talk less, less! Don't speak at all. Don't smile, never laugh. Don't make eye contact, that's an invitation. The room will be too crowded if there are stares. Winter hates company, it thrives on solitude.

Watch it again. Create their world, recreate their dialogues, dive into their sphere. Turn the volume louder, read the subtitles. Float away from the room and become their space. Erase. Erase. Erase. Leave no trace of the self. Imagine another life, run someone else's dreams. They speak in riddles, walk away. Create a fort. Be locked away. Now there's a sound, a loud silence. Can it be heard?

It's the scream of isolation announcing its stay.

I wonder. I always wonder. Flickering lights. Auburn skylights. Do you ever think of me? A rush of your presence overtakes my mind. It shocks me and moves me, I can’t make it stop. I want to, but I let it ride. The moments come, they are limited to you, nonetheless, their potency is palpable. What does it look like in there? In that web of lies, of tries and sighs. Hah! It’s possible to find traces inside. Perhaps there’s a moment of me, a brief laughing gesture, a look, a smile.

I keep wondering. If I look at you, do you tremble? My heart runs to my throat when you glance, if only I provoked the same in you. Blue subsides, flashes from above overtake you. Look! Look! They’re there for you. If only you cared to look. Wishing to know
things, all those unknowns you carry.

I can only wonder. Am I there? Somewhere? There’s a little nook right beside your worries, could that be the place you house me in? It’s quiet now. You seldom hear a car rush through. The skies’ glow died out. Sleeping feels impossible. My body needs restoring but my brain is in overdrive. Images flow by and you’re a familiar recipe in their making.

It leaves me to wonder. When do I appear? Nights might not be your demise. Is it during mornings? Adrenaline springs and reaches your mind and boom! There I am.

The sun is beaming. It warms your whole room. Its rays touch your face and you’re up. Continuous wonder I live in. The time our answers aligned, I saw a glimpse of joy in your eyes, it said that in a room full of people your focus was on me, or maybe all your
wonders belong to someone else.

The day flashes by and tints of autumn reflect on your side view mirror. Darkness knocks again. I fall back to enjoy the ever-sparkling lights, wondering if reaching them is more feasible than holding you.

The watch sits on the desk, it’s racing through time.
The footsteps upstairs from one room to the next.
The echoes of the cars outside as they go to and from,
these fill in the void you create.
A sudden loud scream. The slam on the door.
The phone vibrates. A voice. They break away the spell.
My heartbeat, the wind against the leaves. A song in the distant,
and puff! I no longer feel your stance.
Emptiness gets polluted, then your absence is noted.
Nothingness comes when things retreat. You flourish when interrupted.
As the watch continues its beat, I feel closer to you. After that, the
Door opens, she’s home and now you’ve gone away.

When you comply to pain
You acquiesce to fear
You create pathways of self-pity
And reinforce debilitating tears.

When self-loathing becomes home
And victimization a nurturing place
It creates a false reality
Where hurt is your only pace.

When depressive states get normalized
And they become your daily norm
You find it hard to differentiate
A healthy mind from one constantly torn.

When you romanticize suicide
You masquerade the impact it has
It begins to feel intrinsic to you
Instead of an annihilating mask.

When isolation becomes comfortable
It can feel like a shelter from stress
And never confronting the voices of others
Starts to mute all and any distress.

When pessimism equates practicality
And all lines begin to get blurred
All your measurements of self and normality
Seem like an outcome of a conscious often stirred.

When negativity is your second language
And your self-esteem thrives in callous words
You constantly keep yourself chained
Like a forest with all featherless birds.

When you live your entire life
In an endless loop of anguish and pain
Your self-portrait starts to become an oil painting,
Yet, you forget that you’re the drawing hand.

Remembering what I want to forget. Unable to recall what I need to remember. When did it start? Refusing to ask you because the revelation would make it real. More than it already is. Other pains kept occupying space. It had to wait. Writing it would make it real, trying to forget it becomes harder, there's a record. Is this the root of fear? Afraid of being in a fort not alone but sola. Talks or hints of it. Can't remember, time has a tendency to distort the memories. The motorbikes go by, loud, exhaust, music and maybe plans of it, it's hard to recall. Locked away, innocence dissappearing by the second, or maybe it vanished before that day. When did it start? It's difficult to know. It happened, it didn't feel forced, felt mutual but willingness at five does not seem plausible. Was it that young? Remembering that, it's complicated, you could answer it but forgetfulness gets in the way of asking you, or remembering to ask you slips by. Hard to tell the difference. There was a school day once. Morning it was, the shoes were being tied, memory says that no one else did the tying. Can shoes be tied at five? Can't recall. But being forced to grow up has a way of challenging stages. You said independence was a quality that was shown at five. Where did it go? You asked. It hasn't really, it just shows itself differently. After the shoes were tied, at five there's rejection. Knowledge of wrong and right. Was it really that young? Hard to believe it could be. After that there's no more recollection. Was it before innocence started to die or after? I can't recall and I'm not sure I really want to.

You find yourself thinking in color. It permeates through every inch of what you know. Thoughts get processed in them and translated by it. Although I favor the one that shines most bright, I barely claim it. I lack of it. In fact, I come to deny it, to exclude it, rather than make it my own.

Lets think through color. Nelson lives in the reflective imposition of it. She strips it down and eats it whole. She hugs its core and stares right at it. She owns it, unlike the string of light I keep refusing.

He, she, they, constructed this. We, you, them, distort it, reshape it, bend it up, and cut it down.

It is the only lineage that connects us all. Dickinson saw the strength of the grass like your mom did and with the vision you do. But, color gets lost in translation. They used Doves to instill fear and swordsmen saw Paper as a sign of truce.

It hurts as well. Obsidian carries pain within. Marks on his back from a remote past, a past that is still dragged to the present. Obscure in its presence. Regarded as biologically distinct. Yet, we now know better, or pretend to.

Blends. Blends in, it merges, fuses, makes new. Transforms. Distorts. She made me see the core once, and it bleeds.

Not the primary but the others, from distant lands on a new canvas, filling in the outlined sketch.