I'm sitting here under the lights                                                                   hanging lamps
Tile under my laptop,                                                                                    under my knees
goosebumps over my skin  
and they're laughing, talking, giggling into oblivion
over
embarrassment.

"Why am I here?"

                                                                                      "That's easy. Don't you know?"

"Who are you people?"

                                                                                      "We're your friends. You didn't realize?"

"Why do I feel like I can't breathe?"

                                                                                      "Why do you even try?"

Like I'm any of your ******* business.
You act like you care
but if you did,
then you'd DO something.
I'd do something,
if I cared.

Anger is this funny thing.
It degrades you
unleashes your monsters
destroys every semblance of you and leaves only a pit of utter nasty.

I'm like a ******* volcano of nasty, erupting with explosions like those that ensue
words like "we need to talk" and "it wasn't how you think it was",
cascading all my **** down my sides like a soda bottle recently put through the dryer,
throwing dust into the air until there's no difference between night and my hate-sky,
everything just turns
BLACK.

One:
          It’s funny to think about how messed up a family can be. Everything’s just a big facade--we all pull ourselves together to cover up the cracks. But if you really look, you can see how stretched thin we are. No one wants to reveal the shadows, the burns. But there’s so much anger. We are so taut, ripping at the seams as we yank ourselves into place, as we force back the emotions that beat at the bars.

Two:*
         There are reasons why we have our distractions. There are reasons why we sleep, why we eat, why we read, why we watch endless hours of ****** sitcoms. We don’t want reality. We don’t want the pain of confrontation, whether it be with ourselves or with another person. We live in a fuzzy world of bliss, with the third-party privilege of being at a distance. It’s nice to imagine, for a little while, that your life doesn’t exist. There’s so much less friction that way.

You're wearing too many rings,
just like me.
You're wearing glasses,
just like me. (except mine don't fix my eyes because my eyes are fixed fine)
You're calling me a Little Monster
and I'm laughing, giggling, because monsters don't exist
(except in the closet and in the basement and inside the vacuum)
and you're smiling at me and everything's gold from the fire.
You are wearing an office-shirt, with a collar and a pocket and buttons
tucked into your brown pants
almost like it's seven thirty in the morning, every morning
except it's not. It's Christmas Eve Eve, and I know that because Mama told me
because that's why Grammy and Grampy and Aunts and Uncles and Cousins are being loud in the Living Room
(which is weird because why isn't the kitchen called the Eating Room or our bedrooms called the Sleeping Rooms)
and I know that you're wearing serious-clothes because that's What Grammy Wants to See
and I've been waiting for this day for a whole year. Which is like forever.

I ask for a story and your face wrinkles a little because
I ask for them all the time, I collect them like old people collect money and bank letters and shoes
and you're getting tired of telling them, probably,
but I want the air to shimmer behind your voice
and I want to be the only one that hears it
so I beg.

And you tell me about a magic carpet you had when you were a boy
about fruit--like bananas and apples and kumquats--coming to life
about the time Santa slept late
about when dragons used to be pets and how we used to fly them like cars

and the air is still shimmering but
I'm getting sad
sad,
which I never do when you tell stories
because I'm realizing that all your stories have already happened.
They're ghosts, gone by, never coming back,
beautiful things lost, disappeared.
And you never tell me about the future
because you don't know it any better than I do
and the world seems kind of scary,
too big for me,
ready to **** me in like the vacuum.

You stop your voice, you peek at me
and see my eyes
and then you hug me
all warm because we're by the fire
and the room is silent except for the crackles and snaps
and voices coming from downstairs.

And your shirt is soft and I'm crying
hot water leaks from my eyes, falling down beside my nose
because no one knows the future and it's all too perfect right now.
And you let me go and you kiss my forehead and
say "is it all better now?"
and I nod because I love you
not that I know what love is, but it feels that way
and I'm safe.

Walking through a tunnel,
a cage,
barbed wire linking.
Scream, scream,
ache through the air,
matching voice to wind as it tosses white pine needles
through your hair, around your face,
leaves scratching dry pavement,
mixing with chinese takeout cartons
and Dunkin Donuts straws.
Everything seems heavy
boots, head, belly,
gravity strengthens and
your legs strain.
They watch you zooming by comfortable and spiteful and angry
oblivious,
curious.
Each breath forces itself shakily from your lungs and your heart beats quick and your arms strain against the bag on your shoulders and all you want to do is
RUN run run feel things disappear behind your back feel your hair lift off your neck feel feet hit pavement and muscles flex, feel your body pushing through air and emptiness, pushing forward with a goal to get somewhere. RUN but your boots are too heavy and your eyes weigh you down as they stare at your feet as you walk, as you walk,
as you walk.

Procrastination,
laying on the ground,
words fumbling through my brain like they're on some weird-*** drug
and can't help but bounce off all the walls.

Papers spread all around me,
goading me,
laughing at me,
dancing with each other and
playing twister over the square patterns
on my carpeted floor. They're my audience,
supposed to be sitting in
surprisingly well-cushioned red stadium seats,
only half-paying attention to my feeble attempts at
getting **** done. But I'm noticing this one, sitting (actually sitting!) three rows back
and two chairs down from the aisle
I can see his soft eyes twinkling in the light emanating off the
background of my stage
he watches me, amused, stern, patient,
believing in my abilities to complete
but understanding the trap.
His flat body is well-dressed, covered in straight black lines, question marks,
and capital letters. The kind of paper that means business. The kind of paper that
proves things. His blanks and spaces are all filled out:
pen under a backwards-steady hand.
With all of his numbers and names and titles he's declaring, predicting,
holding
encapsulating
saturated in my future.
He's like a time traveler, sitting there silently with
his boots and black top hat,
whispering softly about what is to come
urging success to spill from my thoughts
which are now linked together in an unorganized conga-line,
falling all over the place is if inebriated intensely,
the crazy ones even throwing up in strategically-placed trash cans.
What a nice touch.

Sweaty palms.
This is what happens
when all but one of your papers don't pay attention to you
and the one that does
is too severe and powerful,
overwhelming,
terrifying,
when that one paper
is the reason why you've been
a fervent procrastinator
this whole time.

I'm empty of everything that early in the morning. No sleep, no hunger, no profound instinctual compulsions that you'd guess live deep in the bowels of the morning, when only the least complex form of each person exists. When it's that dark and that quiet, the heart is the only thing that matters.
          I breathe, but each breath whooshes like wind through one open window and out the other. There's no substance in there; lungs don't catch and hold on. My chest moves hollowly, mechanically, as if it's some household appliance running incessantly. Like a light bulb glowing in a deserted house.
          My eyes stare anywhere, at anything, at darkness and nothingness and up through space and time into worlds where each speck of dust is an infinite entity. I'm restless, too hot under normally snug covers, my arms wanting to reach out and grab hold of something more substantial than what I have. Have you ever had that feeling? Of just wanting to reach out, out, out into the atmosphere, farther, longer, feel the power reverberating through your arm, and feel the stretch of your muscles and tendons? My cheeks burn--I know they're red.
          I turn onto my side, I stare out the window, I watch the murky orange-pink of the streetlight far away, slightly blurred by the ***** glass.
          My stress is tangible, emanating out of my body, filling the air with a cloud of decay, stifling me in my bed. I reach up and touch the ceiling, less than 2 feet above my head, feeling trapped, my temples are a newly tumble-dried button-down shirt firmly pressed under an iron. I'm aching, and it's all my fault.
          My dreams have been wispy, morning haze, almost indistinguishable from real life. Reminders.