Note: This is a spoken word poem. Read aloud for best affect. Poem will read with a natural flow.*

Remember back when beauty was that little yellow flower?
And nobody picked it because they were afraid that the color would fade
So they just sat
And they stared
Silent
In awe
For hours at a time
The way that today I look at my reflection
But the awe has turned to agony
And I look in my eyes, and recoil
What used to be “Just fine” now causes inner turmoil
Isn’t that sad?
That flower got picked from its window box in the schoolyard
And just like we expected, life for it got hard
The flower scarred
Its pain written out on every single petal
And the petals, they faded
Like now natural beauty has become overrated
As the flower sits in a bouquet of hybrid roses
And those roses have thorns
Thorns that ***** and sting and poke
Like when you say, “Aw, c’mon, it was just a joke”
To that girl you called ugly ‘cause she dyed her hair and got braces
Trying to fit in with all the other faces
Isn’t that what society wants from us today?
To change and rearrange what God gave us
To fill ourselves with plastic because, according to the famous ones
That’s what makes life so fantastic
And Barbie isn’t our role model because she’s smart
Not ‘cause she’s a doctor and a vet and a scientist and probably a professor in art
But because she’s skinny
And if you put her proportions on a real girl
That girl would be in a hospital
Fighting anorexia while she gets another implant
Today it feels like we don’t stand a chance
Because they tell you that if you wanna make an impression
Just forget that yellow flower
And now, with every waking hour
I think about how I could be taller
Or have prettier hair
Maybe if I dyed it black or red or blonde then everyone would care
Maybe none of them would stare
Maybe I could finally live my life
Without everyone waiting to see if I can finally live up to the expectations
Because I can’t
I look in that mirror wondering if I can see what everyone else is wanting
Because once upon a time
I thought I was fine
I thought short hair was spunky
And dark eyes were lovely
It’s like I’ve been living a lie
Like Christmas time when you finally ask Mommy if Santa is fake
And she hesitates
And then she tells you yes
So I stare for hours and hours
I’m just like that flower
Now I’m broken and I’m plain
When did beauty become a game?
What’s ugly is the way kids hate themselves now
‘Cause of what the TV is telling us now
That we all need to learn how
To look like everyone else
Hate to burst your bubble that I can’t look like Paris or Nicki
(Spoiler alert: They’re fake)
Not unless you want me
Destroying myself
Because I refuse to be like everyone else
I just wanna get rid of the shame
That makes me blame myself for not being “pretty enough”
I just wanna be that flower
Whose beauty was natural and everyone watched for hours
Not needing to compare themselves to it
Because they all looked just as beautiful
And they knew it
So maybe some of us who are still sane, we can make a change
Show the next generation that beauty isn’t in what you gain
It’s when you remain the same
And maybe I can look in that mirror
Without any fear
And actually smile
And sit there awhile
And find beauty without a search
Maybe then there wouldn’t be so much hurt
Like when we see that yellow flower
Petals stretched toward the sun
Then we will know our job is done
And we have finally won

It's been ten years.
Ten years that I've been allowed to exist here.
Things here are beautiful
magnificent
fascinating and extremely exhausting.
There is so much to take in.
The rivers, crystal clear and endless.
The forests, lush and deeply green.
People are far and few between
and everything is amazing.

It's been one hundred years.
One hundred years and I still can't get enough.
Every night is filled with wonder.
Stars cover a velvety black night sky
and a softly glowing moon's rays caress the rolling hills and valleys.
Every day is full of adventure.
I feel like a small child, humbled at the bottom of a waterfall
sprayed down by cool mist
and I see her on the other side.
Grin, raise a hand in greeting, and wait for a response.

It's been only another ten years.
Now one hundred and ten years that I've been trapped here.
She is not like myself.
She can die, and unfortunately, I cannot follow.
Death would be a blessing.
Life is now a curse.
Great cities of stone and wood have risen up around me.
But I feel hollow
empty
burdened by the loss of her.

It's been one thousand years.
One thousand years that I have been exiled here.
The cities have grown and become still more populated.
Yet I am alone.
It is hopeless, pointless;
making friends, beginning even the most harmless of relationships
holds no appeal for me.
They all will die, for they are mortal.
And I shall be left, once again, with nothing but memories.
Life is now a chore, no longer a gift.

It's been ten thousand years.
Ten thousand years, and all hope is not lost.
Though the world is now entirely too full.
and city has turned to metropolis, so great are the numbers among me.
But I tell you my tale because you are like me.
No longer will my eternity be empty.
From master to servant you have turned me.
And I do not mind being vulnerable; opening up to you is
wonderful.
Things here are once more magnificent
now that I may see them through your eyes
by your side
my beautiful immortal.

Swift as nightfall, it closes in
Rolling over sea still as glass
Thicker than smoke, darker than sin
The fog, it tumbles in an impenetrable mass
Blocking out the early light of day

With tiny footsteps it creeps to the dock
Softly stirring secret shadows
Standing quiet, observing, I in my night frock
Some part of me still dreaming of distant meadows
Moving swiftly, it devours the very last of the sun’s rays

I wrap my robe around me
Making my way out of doors
The fog, it deepens, struggling to be free
And like a cat, crawls on all fours
Up and over and past the bay

Frightfully quick now it surges on
Some part of me murmurs that my feelings are wrong
My mind urges, “Do not fall prey to nature’s con!”
Yet the sweet, seductive calling of the fog’s siren song
Sends me dreamwalking into its heavy gray

My spirits start to soar
Engulfed and held by the fog’s thickening grasp
Against my mind’s desire, I want more
And as the fog turns suffocating, I gasp
Falling to my knees in this place I long to stay

The fog, ever enveloping me in its endless cloak
Whispers words of freedom like the loveliest of poem
I close my eyes, tripping, slipping, fumbling, tumbling, giving in to the beauty of the smoke
Knowing deep inside that I am home
And in the fog, forever I lay

A woman traipsed with the whole company of ballet;
She was but only a soloist, a mere sujet.
Her companions wore clothes for traveling hard,
But our sujet, she dressed in dancing shoes and leotard.
Her head was upturned and her nose pointed
High, as if by a great saint she had been anointed.
With ease she stretched into each dainty pose
But no other ballerina saw the bandages wrapped around her toes,
Which she had to replace every other hour;
Seeing her bleeding sores did often make her cower.
To the other ballerinas she was dismissive and ****
But her oft-clenched fists belied the faltering of her heart.
Her chestnut hair she had dyed golden like the rest
And her curves became thin so she would dance her very best;
She had hidden herself inside ‘till her olive skin turned pale,
Believing if she fit in, at her craft she never could fail.
Instead of breaking her fast or supping at night
She practiced her art and took nary a bite.
The ballet troupe sneered while the sujet put on her airs
Yet I know she wept at the ice hardened in their stares.

Note: This is a spoken word poem. Read aloud for best affect. Poem will read with a natural flow.

When life hands you lemons
You make lemonade
Remember when that was one of those little phrases made
When your best friend's smile would fade
Out on the playground
And you wanted nothing more than to see them smile
So you took their hand and jumped in the leaf pile
Because lesson number one was about friendship
And your best friend meant more to you than that
Bus ride home sitting next to that cute boy from school
Back when charm bracelets were cool
And a date was a playdate was a trip to the pool
And there you learned lesson number two
Loyalty
Because when your best friend couldn't swim, suddenly
Neither could you
And you sat and splashed
And had a lot of fun all the same
And it was just the beginning
Because you learned that being loyal was better than winning
That schoolyard competition of hoop-spinning
Even if you didn't know what loyalty meant
You  knew that seeing your friend win
And seeing them happy
Was much better than winning yourself
Sometimes
And lesson number three came on your very first
Friend's-only shopping spree
And you finally felt free
Because you had fifty bucks and, I mean,
How much more money could there possibly be?
And you walked into that store your big sis had been in
And your tomboy best friend tried on her very first dress
And that was when you learned that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes
'Cause you knew it would have been a major lie
To tell her that she didn't look absolutely beautiful
But lesson number four wasn't like the ones before
Because this one smashed down your door
And you vowed never to be friends with your BFF anymore
Because she texted that guy you like...
...Or so was the rumor that spread through your school
And this lesson was about trust
You learned to believe those who mattered
And ignore those who didn't
And not long after, the saying "Honesty is the best policy" came true
When you lied to your mother about what you were gonna do
After school
And when she found out, like all moms know how to
You sobbed and you cried
You felt like you'd died
Needing one thing and only one thing
Needing it more than food to eat
Or water to drink
Or air to breathe
You just needed Mom to believe you again
And so you discovered lesson number five: Honesty
And you picked up a few things along the way
Like always look both way when you cross the street
Like always turn in your homework on time
Like sisters before misters
Whatever that would mean
You were only fourteen
And like knowing which way to go
Like knowing to tell people when you were going
Like knowing that someone would always want to know where  you were going
Because someone would always need you to come home
Because someone would always love you
Even if you felt like the most worthless person alive
Because you had been left behind
You'd been cast aside
Even when you cried for days on end
Felt like you'd never live again
Like everything had been pretend
Like you didn't have a single, solitary friend
That was when *your best friend learned lesson number six
The one about being there for each other
And even when it stung
Still tighter you hung
Thinking nothing would ever get better
Not wanting to hear that things would
Even when you knew that things could
And eventually, the years went by
The time did fly
And the painful memories faded
And there you stand on the first day of freshman year
Filled with fear
But feeling triumphant, knowing the past was past
The pain wouldn't last
High school would fly by fast
And as you walk through those halls
Sticking to the walls
Hearing your friends' calls
You think, "Huh. Isn't it funny, the stuff my parents said I'd find
All in due time
Are all things that I've dealt with before?"

The pine tree that stands on the outskirts of the pasture
Swaying in time with the wind as if dancing to an encrypted tune
Has been my good friend and conspirator for many years

My mom forbids me from climbing the pine’s frail branches
The wood appears so strong but can crack without a moment’s notice
I disregard her order on occasion and scale up the tree
Which consequently results in injuries that last for days

The pine tree, the one companion I can count on to never argue, complain, or disagree
Has for quite a long time allowed my siblings, cousins, and I
To scamper up and down her branches
Much like crazed squirrels

I trust her with my secrets
This tree, which tastes so strongly of an unusual combination
Of freedom and danger
Allows me to climb quickly and quietly
So that I am unseen by parents or tattletales
Up to the highest point I can, where I hug her warm, rough trunk
Take in the scent of minty needles and warm Minnesota summers
Watch the wandering cars fly past on the endless trail of asphalt that is the highway
And feel the soft breeze that is nonexistent twenty feet below

I’ve claimed the pine tree as my own
Up in her branches I feel brave and it’s almost as if I can feel
Something like happiness emanating from inside her
I often go to her to escape heated arguments or to taste the inspiration she gives me
When I have a notebook and pen in hand

My pine tree will always understand me
And this is why I love her
Just like me, she has a dark sense of humor
And occasionally
SNAP!
Then, like always, I pick myself up, brush myself off
Look up at yet another broken branch
And climb to the top once again
My favorite place in the world
Mostly because I’m not allowed to be there

When you come in, you come in with a bang
You're plastered
hammered
three sheets to the wind
We all know what's coming
"kids, in your rooms.
Daddy and I have to talk."
And this is how life is
day after day.
week after week.
month after month.
year.
after.
******.
year.
We dream of escape
leaving you and Chicago
and buying a nice little cabin out in the country
But for now, it matters not
We don't have the money
Only you
And a collection of bruises
cuts
scars.
Someday
oh, someday
we'll leave you
and your **** *****.

A name, a name
What be in a name?
Forsooth, more than I had attended.
Montague hath borne me, yet unto Capulet tombs do I bestow myself.
This pestilence of a name, oh!
What sorrow has it brought Romeo!
Yet I do not beshrew my name this wicked Fate.
My Juliet, mine own love,
could Death have yet to claim thee?
Thine cheeks, rosy as summer
thine skin, warm as sunlight.
Could thee truly indeed be Death's paramour?
Would not it sur-prise me, for thine beauty is oft coveted.
'Twas not fault of mine nor fault of yours that hath led us to such accursed Fate;
'twas fault of our blood, flowing in hatred; marry for many a year.
Long did Montague carry coals from the lips of thine cousins, and Capulet from mine.
Alas, to reminisce does one no good.
I shall tarry not long, my love!
Bitter apothecary, thou bringeth me upward to St. Peter;
to the glimmering gates of the Promised Land where mine Juliet awaits!
...But behold how her eyes flutter; my heart stutters in reproach.
But fight can I not!
I succumb to the arms of Death.
Follow on my heels, dear Juliet.

I have never learned how to play Texas Hold 'Em.
I have never gotten a tattoo.
I have never felt healthy but stayed in bed all day
or watched the sun drown in the ocean.
I have never been able to touch the delicate legs of a spider.
I have never betrayed a friend
or robbed a bank
or stolen a life.
I have never hung up the phone when I needed to and
I have never felt comfortable in my own skin.
But once I stood in the middle of a raging storm,
rain drenching me and wind whipping my hair and clothes,
and when a bolt of lightning struck
not one hundred feet away
I was indestructible.

My love,
he's always there, even when he's not.
I feel his presence in every snowflake.
I taste his lips in every tear.
I hear his heartbeat with every crack
of frost upon my windowsill.
He tastes like
strawberries and sadness.
The Spring broke his heart
and now he's broken mine.
Encased it in ice to claim as his own
never knowing what would come later.
I've always fancied doomed love
but never
Fire and Ice.
Never something so
masochistic.
He thinks his chilled words
can soothe the painful flames engulfing my innards.
What does Winter know of
Summer?
There is always a season to keep them apart.
He cannot know he is breaking my heart,
threading lines of ice through a cracked and aching vessel.
The rains of Spring are only the tears of
Summer,
weeping as I watch the last of my love
melt away.

Standing in the middle of a raging storm
feels like
the very world as we know it is coming to an end.
The apocalypse
or Armageddon
becoming a reality
in the screaming winds, bitter rain drops, and endless noise.
Lightning flashes everywhere
tangling with the clouds and trees
persistent
unstoppable power
like a cobra among a nest of baby birds.
And when the thunder rumbles past
ear-shattering in its intensity
in its powerful force
like a freight train come derailed
I realize that never before
have I ever once truly
lived.

I sit on the small, linoleum square that makes up the bottom
of my shower.
The water is hot,
120 degrees or so,
and I press my face against the cool glass
of the sliding door.
My music is playing but I can't hear it
the light is flickering but I can't see it
the water is scalding but I can't feel it.
I hear only the water falling from the shower head
see only the mist on the glass
feel only the wasting away of my heart and sanity.
And this is me,
baring my soul before you,
for nobody knows how much this is hurting me.
And as I watch the water swirl past my legs
and down the drain,
I wish I could go down the drain
with it.

You know just what to say, just how to look at me, to tear me to pieces.
I feel like it's a gift you possess.
An exceedingly rare one. Nobody else has ever made me flame up inside just with a simple look,
a simple touch on the wrist.

On those days when I hate my very existence,
when I doubt that I should be the one at your side,
you have only to draw me near.

Even with your tender words of love,
promising that I am the most,
the best,
the greatest,
my self-hatred burns me up inside until it shows on my face.

You kiss it away and tell me sweetly to prepare for my destruction.
And I come willingly, for destruction is a beautiful word when sitting upon your lips.

She walks in for another week at home
already whining and crying and complaining.
The first thing I wanna say is,
“You have gotta be kidding me.”
Hardly here a minute
already giving her dad grief
when he does everything for her
and mine does nothing for me.

“It isn’t fair!” she moans,
every time her dad won’t buy her
whatever new expensive thing she wants this time.

But I’d like to tell her what really isn’t fair.
Living with diabetes
or having prosthetic limbs
or being abused at home.
Maybe she should be like thousands of girls in Africa,
pregnant and with AIDS,
or at the very least she could be without a dad who loves her.
Perhaps then she could say
that life isn’t fair.

The day may be calm
But it can begin within an instant

Storms are like panthers
Quick on their feet and always alert
Black as night
Deadly when not taken seriously
Often striking when least expected

The clear sky
Once as blue as a hidden creek
Becomes a mirage behind the clouds that blanket it

Time seems to stop
You and I notice nothing
Flowers hide within their petals
Closing off from the outside world
Birds silence themselves
Taking cover in the tree branches
And the cloying scent of rain fills the air

Together, we all wait
Humans and nature alike
With bated breath
As the first heavy drops begin to fall

The storm picks up quickly
Clouds so full of water that they seem about to burst
Cry tears down on the grass

The wind screams out an eerie warning:
This is only the beginning
The worst has yet to come

Clouds darken and close in
The first flash of lightning licks the sky
Leaving the air full of electricity
And tasting like fire

A heartbeat later
The ground trembles as thunder growls
Trees shake, all the way from their delicate leaves
Down to the very ends of their roots
For the wind sings louder
And the trees know what is to come

The clouds still their tears
Lightning and thunder pause in their game
Of cat-and-mouse
Skies turn an ominous green
As the rumble of trains are heard from a distance

Chaos is let loose
As if Pandora’s Box has been unlocked
A siren’s shriek rips through the air

The black funnel pours out of a cloud
Stretches its neck toward the ground
Picks up anything it can grasp in its hole of a mouth
Chews it
Swallows it
Spits it out again

Everything in its path is left broken

The funnel retreats back into the angry clouds
Leaving with a final streak of lightning
And a restrained purr of thunder

Pale light shines through the cloud in patches as they disperse
Illuminating the destruction
The only proof of a monstrous storm

We come out of hiding, you and I
Begin rebuilding the damage
Under the colors of the rainbow
And a shining sun

Centuries ago, everything was fine. Does time always seem to go by so fast?
I want to go back, before he was so cold.
I take that for granted. Should have been smarter!
Could things have turned out differently?

Once upon a time my father would have stayed forever.
My eyes were completely blinded by his
little gifts when it was clear he didn't want me.
Now I realize.
Did I make a
drastic
mistake
once long ago?
I was a child
so maybe
it was only
his error.

I'm a musician, an artist, a director, and a puppeteer.

I make music with my syllables, create artwork with my sentences, tell everyone on my set where to go, what to say, what to do and how to do it. I grab hold of your heartstrings and pull them in whatever direction I please when you read my words.

All of this equates to what I am.

An author.

Part I – 10039 330th Street West

I used to live in a haunted house.
Everything about the building felt wrong:
Creaking staircase,
Crumbling basement walls,
Dark side door,
Thin white curtain in the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub.

When I lived in the haunted house
I was a little girl, and I didn’t move until I started high school.
I hated my room,
I hated the dining room,
I hated the basement.
I never used the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub.

Bad things happened in the haunted house.
It didn’t matter what the time of day was.
Growling at night from the dining room,
Singing in the morning from the basement,
Tapping on the porch window at midday in the playroom.
Nobody checked if there was activity in the bathroom, which housed a clawfoot tub.

I know that the house was haunted
Because someone was always with me when these things happened.
My stepbrother who also heard the growling,
My stepsister who also heard the singing,
And all of us who heard the tapping.
I know that these happened
Because the house was haunted.


Part II – 13947 Gates Avenue

I used to live in a haunted house.
Everything about the building felt wrong:
My bad report cards in the recycling,
The constant panic in my stomach,
Piles of tissues on my bedroom floor,
My bedroom itself, where I constantly hid away.

When I lived in the haunted house
I was a teenager, and I didn’t move until after starting college.
I hated the living room,
I hated the kitchen,
I hated the hallway.
Most of all I hated my bedroom, where I constantly hid away.

Bad things happened in the haunted house.
It didn’t matter what the time of day was.
Whistling by the window at night from the wraparound porch,
Screaming outside during the day from the yard,
Voices whispering my name constantly from anywhere.
I was only safe in my bedroom, where I constantly hid away.

I can’t know that the house was haunted
Because nobody was with me when these things happened.
I was alone with the whistling,
I was alone with the screaming,
I was alone with the whispering.
I can’t know these happened
Because it’s my head that’s haunted.

Tonight, I want to sleep with you.
I don't mean I want to have ***. I don't even mean I want to make love.
I just want to crawl into bed with you and sleep.
I want you to keep me cozy, and wake me if I have nightmares.
I often do.
In turn I'll whisper soft sweet fantasied promises into your ear, and then tickle you until you cry from laughter so the mood doesn't get too heavy.
I want to forget about yesterday, let today fade away, and ignore tomorrow. I just want you, your steady breathing, the beat of your heart, and the snowflakes out the window.
I want your cobalt eyes to be the last thing I see each night.
And I want to pretend we can last forever.

Above, the sun laughed.
It mocked us, the intensity of it
bore down on us
melting us
from the inside out.
I could feel it gaze into my soul,
and as it did,
I felt my soul begin to die.
It melted down to a sort of liquid gold,
and could it have been bottled I would have in an instant,
and then sold it for something
useful
or
worthy.
There is
no
place for a
soul
in this world.
My soul began to boil, then bubbled over
and began to flow out my
mouth and
eyes and
ears and
nose,
pouring out of any open spot in my body.
It dripped over my cheeks and
dribbled out my mouth, then
flowed like molasses down
my shoulders and
chest,
and like honey down
my legs and
over my feet.
Once it hit the ground I heard it sizzle out of existence,
and I looked up,
feeling a new and sickening weightlessness.
My companions were crouched on the ground,
howling like madmen
and trying to lap up with their tongues
the last little bubbles of their souls
as they were absorbed by the rough desert sand.
In the younger ones I could see their souls
fizzing
in their eyes, and they gulped anxiously
in a futile effort to keep them inside.
I stared up at the sun as it continued to
laugh,
and I wished for the moon, and
the ability to cry.

He sits in his cell
She in hers
He is praying
Somewhat futilely in her opinion
for forgiveness from his God.
He calls across the hallway to her
asking if she has begged for
repentance.
But she merely throws her head back
and laughs like she hasn't in weeks, perhaps even months.
"Then you shall go to Hell, friend,"
he calls, bitter tears choking his voice
as the time ticks slowly away and
a noose sways in his mind's eye.
She laughs again, and replies,
"For what? We are both here to die;
we will both have payed our price.
Here you are meant to be, while I am not.
I ask you this, brother, why is your God not here for me?
What reason have I to pray?"
He has committed
******
****** in the first degree
of the first-born brother who would not share his
money
land
or other birthright earnings.
Now half an hour is left
the priest has come and gone.
And from their ground-level windows they can see the
gathering crowd proclaiming,
"String them up!
Hang the murderer 'til his neck snaps!
Hang the ***** 'til her breath is gone!"
And he pokes his head out between the cell bars
and whispers down the hall.
"So, this is why you are here?"
She nods once, and then once more as a farewell,
as the executioner comes
to lead her
away.

One, with a layer of dust on it,
behind the toothbrush holder
below the hand towel.
Vitamin D – to curb panic,
to promote happiness.
Useless and old and forgotten.

Two, to replace the vitamins,
sitting front and center
among the more useful bottles.
Prozac – half-finished,
sometimes forgotten.
Huge capsules hard to choke down
every morning with a glass of water,
and the anxiety they are meant to stop
making it difficult to swallow.

Three, four, and five, nearly empty canisters of
antibiotics – not much else
to be said about them.

Six, for times of emergency,
awake in the early hours when sleep is necessary.
Melatonin – for forcing the heavy blanket of slumber.
Strong, but not prescription.
All-natural, from the health store in town.

Seven, the newest bottle to replace
the many emptied ones.
Painkillers – over-the-counter, perhaps,
but abused nevertheless.

Eight, completely emptied, tipped on its side
by the empty glass of water, standing in its own plastic wrapping.
Tylenol –.

The willow's slender, gentle boughs
Extending like so many depressed but welcoming arms
Towards the maiden deep below in dark waters.

This is the willow that grows aslant a brook.
This is the tree who witnessed the mad ravings of a girl,
Who watched as she did pick those flowers
And draped them as a noose about her form.

The tree, the only witness to the young woman's fall
Or perhaps a leap, a jump, into the abyss.
It is for her that the willow weeps.

They say it is better to have loved and lost
Than to have never loved at all.
Sometimes I think that they are right.
Sometimes, too, I wonder about my own masochistic tendencies-
Wonder why I revel in the thrill of a broken heart.
I go back to those same old stories:
When the lover dies,
When the war is lost,
When the hero is vanquished.
The pages of those old novels are scattered with faded teardrops
And yet I return to them again and again
To feel that same wrenching in my chest
Somewhere behind my ribcage.
I look at myself in the mirror
And wonder if I’m a pretty crier.
And I look at the vague scars on my skin
And wonder which kind of pain is better
The physical or the mental.
I don’t feel that heartache anymore
That beautiful, haunting, throbbing pain
That let me know that, at least, I am alive.
They say that absence makes the heart
Grow fonder.
Mostly I think they are wrong.
Mostly, too, I wonder about what it would feel like-
Wonder what it would be to feel that lovely stinging pain again.

Last night I hit a cat.

I've never hit an animal with my car before.
I've been in a car that has hit an animal,
but it's different when you're the one driving.

It was late. It was drizzling.
I was coming home from work.
My right eye was blurry.

I live in the country off of a gravel road.
I was two minutes from home,
at the top of the big hill.

It shot out from the dark brush on the right.
They teach you in driver's ed not to swerve
if an animal comes at your car.

I didn't swerve. I wish I had.
It's different when you're the one driving.
I felt it, in my bones. In my heart.

I heard it, too, over the roar of violins from my radio.
I coasted twenty feet; threw the car in park.
I put on my flashers, since that's what you should do.

I haven't cried that hard since we put my own cat down.
I didn't know I had it in me to sob that viscerally.
I think I'll feel that cat in my bones until I'm dead.

Dark birds take flight and swoop through the chill air.
Shadows hover over a sleeping form.
Silence hangs inside a skull’s socket stare.
Spirits convene in a soft huddled swarm.
Storm clouds linger low in the near distance.
Buzzards peck at a carcass left to rot.
A last breath does not put up resistance.
A soul bends to the forces it once fought.
Quiet whispers of your name in the night.
An evil figure follows close behind.
The dripping teeth of a dog’s fatal bite.
An unspoken word is terror defined.

The darkness in life is all that I fear,
And yet holds everything that draws me near.