Outside of a bar in a North Carolina strip mall, stone cold sober because I am scared to use my fake, I feel drunk as you sit next to me. Perhaps I am. I'd have to be to think maybe, maybe, maybe, when I know, I know, I know.

Your hand brushes against mine, and you're saying the most beautiful words I've ever heard, and the fire in my heart spreads up, down, left, right. But it cannot spread just four inches outside of my body. It cannot set you on fire, too.

We listen to each other and hear two very different things. You are birdsong outside of my window that I am eager to hear; I am traffic outside of your window you've learned to tune out at bedtime.  

If there are nine million bicycles in Beijing, then Beijing is my insides and bicycles are your name, because it is written on my insides nine million times. But there are no bicycles on Antarctica. There is no use for them there, just as there's no use for my name to be perched on a straight girl's ribs.

You tell me my weird hobby of listening to French rap music is awesome, that it's so cool that I'm teaching myself three languages, and that you want to be me when you grow up - I laugh, because you're several years older than me. Selfishly I catch every droplet of your praise.  I ruminate on it for hours, for days. It means more to me than it should.

My name sounds like a compliment from your mouth. I try not to say yours too often, so you don't grow tired of me being around. If I can't set your insides on fire, I want you to want to be my friend. Even that feels like I ask for too much.

In every scene, I see you in the foreground of the narrative. For me, it would be on honor to be one of your background characters. Narratives are richer with them anyway.

I look at you and you are the Harry Potter movie marathon I wait months for. For you, I am the 2 am infomercial you fell asleep to. But I don't mind half as much as I should. Even white noise has its place in someone's life.

people find it hard
to believe happiness
because for many,
it’s much more of a myth
or a hazy recollection
than it is something real
and rational and
to be aspired too

love and hope
and dreams
have taken on this air of
imagination
in recent generations

for a brief moment,
they were truly believed in
by the adults
by the people in charge
by the whole wide world
even as everything they knew before
had crumbled and wrecked
to a state beyond
their power to
repair

but it was that desolate place the world was
that drove the people to believe in such fancy
and frivolous thoughts

because if they had not,
the world would’ve withered
and died, like a cow so old
you know there’s no hope
or a flower so far gone
that you don’t mind to let it
wilt

those times went though,
like a leaf upon the wind,
as the children began acting
as the adults and followed
their dreams to a land so
few actually reached


and as the adults saw their failure
and the children saw the adults flee
the belief in love, in hope, in dreams,
in morals, in rites, in traditions, in
togetherness, in family, in belief-

failed

and

sunk

the last tip of the ship leaving the surface
with the first person who believed in the
infomercial

we do not know what we can do
because we do not believe we can
do anything

happiness, as I started this all out with,
is not a bed-time story

it is very real
and it is very
powerful

but in each average person’s life
they get to experience only once
or twice, seeming like a random
occurrence, and thus cementing
in so many people’s minds that
it is

but it is not

happiness comes from knowing how to be happy

it’s not about sacrifice
or faith
or hard-work
or dedication

it’s about knowing who you are,
what the world is,
and how you
can make
the best
of it

this is not some secret art

it is a simple idea:
that happiness can be controlled

and it’s execution is even simpler:

how can I be happy?
how can I be happy,
forever?

The dried petals of a once green love
snake through the beige carpet--
along with potato chips,
along with icy *****,
along with grey ash of cheapshit incense,
my empire soles trample in after work.

Susan smiles and tries to reheat the leftovers.
Our bulging bellies match from a marriage of coping strategies,
stretch mark'd and daydreaming of
other seasons; sweat on foreign sheets,
other napes; Mediterranean baby's breath,
other scents; a choice between gardenia and gasoline,
Susan's a liar.
Of deceit--I've grown tired.

Newspaper, newspaper bring me a bullet.
Doorbell, doorbell bring me a blushing nomad in need of bruising.
Ringtone, ringtone bring me DHS and an actual Friday.

Susan tucks me in to the Lullaby of the Infomercial,
her fingernail seeps into my lower lip.
I roll onto my side.

I come with an empty bottle guarantee
Take all of me.
If you're not happy with what you received
send me back empty
no questions asked.
And I'll return all our memories.

Eating hot dogs in D.C.
Late night breaks at truck stops
during our 28 hour round trip to see what made me.

You can play me like a violin
or use me to wipe your tears away.
If I am out of tune
or if I'm not absorbent enough
send me back used.

Treat me like a balloon
I'll be there when your kidneys fail
with a message of hope just for you.
But if that is not enough
send me back deflated.
I'll pay the postage.

Unfortunately, if you order now
I come with nothing else.
Just me, and what you see.
If I don't fill you up
send me back empty
and I'll return all our memories.

The sky is solid, gray, motionless.
Shuffling bodies with obscured shadows
Make haste for shelter
From the stark, lifeless outside
With its grass that only lives if watered,
The always leafless trees,
And the carcinogenic air.
Looking upward,
Through the smoggy haze,
One sees the neon silhouettes
Floating in the sky,
Atop the glass and steel monoliths.
They speak to those below,
Of subtle, clandestine oligarchy.
Subconsciously belittling the anonymous masses,
"We are Titans, you are rats."
Say the towers,
As the populace quietly passes over stained concrete and asphalt,
Wearing breathing masks,
Saying not a word to the thousands they pass.

We make haste in this world.
We cannot afford to help a stranger,
To make a detour with a view,
To get your child that gift they really want.
So fiercely we have been strangled
That empathy is illogical.
"What a world" we all say,
As we avoid eye contact with the hungry;
As we change the channel from the melodramatic infomercial
About starving, disease-ridden children somewhere else;
As we console ourselves with hollow entertainment and intoxication,
To keep the guilt at bay,
To keep the thoughts at bay,
"Just do what's best for you,
Don't step out of line,
Shuffle in,
Follow the queue.
That's all you can do."

There are moments in life
Experiences
Where the minutes feels like hours
The days feel like years
The weeks
A lifetime
Looking up at the sky
Or the clock in the watershed
While it was done to you
To me
The strangling, the fighting
The crying, screaming, tossing and turning
Over and over again
They say it’s the last time
That they’ve changed
Born again
But
No
It’s not true
And here they are again
The daddy and the mommy
Names given to flesh-tearing monsters
And lusting jackals
Gleeful devils and
Shadows on the wall
Laughing and *******
Pulling knives and nails form their womb
To bury us in an keep us there
Fiends wrapping themselves in avarice
And sweltering babes roasting over the iron fire
Where fingers and tongues push and pull
Your insides
Thrusting and moaning to weekly
Mixed tapes and infomercial gurus
Batting eyes to static gods and god haters
Feasting in my tears
For the last time before my very own fingers
Become jagged spears and
Raging teeth
To pull apart the wolf in sheep’s clothing
Jerking his **** over your face and whispering
Bibles verses to an invisible
Congregation
Who holler and praise
The almighty lord
Who watches over us and
Places bets with the Devil in the aftermath of
Melting, dissolving, sacred bond
That is till death does them part
In sickness or in health
With broken bottles, wheel jacks
Kitchen blades, handguns, bare-knuckle fists
And those friends wonder why
Why I’m alone and
Why I can’t do the same things they do
Speak the way they speak
Understand what is so easy for them
School is a foreign concept that plagues our life
Its mere system mocks us
Saying I’m
We’re different, special, needed attention
Counselling, treatment, guardians
Medications.
Lost
So lost are they
For not seeing the truth
But the lies are more convenient
To the slothful ignorant
The fearful cowards
Wrathful misguided
Wrongful accuser
Lustful solicitor
All groping, kissing, grabbing
Slapping, hitting, tearing, bleeding
*******, licking, copulating
Red-eyed mongols throbbing over and
Drooling and spitting
Beating and killing
Flinging bodies against the wall and
Smashing the heads of children over the
Burning bridges of sycophant minds
Taking away the innocence
Laced with birth
Where our loveless bodies harden
And become blank and
Emotionless
And see the painted veil
That hid the original art
Of the first painter of the sky


The thing about being suicidal is,
No one knows you are till you’ve already done it.

And people say those who off themselves are selfish
When all they want is a release.

They still love you,
And are assured others love them.

But it’s not about love.
It’s when vengeance and fate aren’t enough

When tears dry up

And distress runs it course

My first-aid kit drys up in the sun, but everything important still works after I shake out all the love.
The words I need to release next can dance a seizure in your chest.
A prom of the heart.

It feels strange to whisper caving secrets across a desert.
Like how I fear that I'll run out of skin before patience.
How lots has been bleeding since we last spoke.
And how it feels better to rain over an aqua covered Monday, than to drown my lobes into infomercial.

Good morning miss,
how do you do?
I have something very special today to offer you!
Oh, wouldn't you like to know what it is?
I know you're busy, ma'am-- it won't be but a bit

Thank you, ma'am.

Now, take a gander at this--
We live in a very advanced age,
With much to do that cannot be missed!
With television and telephones and magneato-static tape,
We can easily forget-- get lost-- frequently lose our place!

But with this brand new...
eh..
thingermadoo!
You'll find your worries quickly erased!

..Well yes ma'am, if you'll let me finish.

Now see, its easy!
All it takes is a tune
a look, a whistle, even a fingertap'll do
This magic machine
listens to your needs!

It's small, and light,
and shatters quite
easily.
So you'll want to have it on hand.
For safekeeping!

It listens to you,
like no man would do
And ensures you are the best you can be!
Once you pay the price,
you won't need think twice--
Yes ma'am!
all the knowledge you could want in the world, to a T!

How does it do it?
Well you really needn't ask
It works through the mutual human task!
Every man, woman, and child comes together to contribute
It does not discriminate, you do not pay tribute
No ma'am no, this machine seeks no gold
Just you, is what it wants. It simply wants you.

You'll take it? That's great! I'll get you in next shipment
they're sourced from a faraway place, but it won't take but an instant!
With boats and planes and automobiles,
We'll get it to you
We'll make sure of that, words true.

We're excited for this!
You won't believe what you've missed!
And very quickly you'll find the world just doesn't do
without constant supervision from the...
eh..
thingermadoo.

Now if you'll excuse me, miss--
you have a nice night.

I thought it was me
The whole time.… it was you.
Convincing me that I had been the enemy
Tearing down all that’s familiar around me
Accepting too much
Placing things too high for reaching…
I have yet to find the stool
You are only seeking perfection
Is that not too farfetched?
Amid the worlds imperfection?
A glory that I, myself, have not yet attained
I am only seeking what’s worthy
Surely, I am deserving of that
The enemy…
Feeling like I must conform
To the ways and for the likes of you
When I don’t even know you…
So for now on, I’ll be sleeping
With the t.v. off.

-Sydnē Deon