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Andrew T  Jul 2016
For Vicki
Andrew T Jul 2016
Backstory: A Memoir

For Vicki



While I was downstairs, folding laundry in the basement, I heard my sister Vicki stomping upstairs to the room that used to be mine, slamming the door, and locking it shut.

I was a ****** older brother. And Vicki learned that action from me.
Then, I heard more footsteps. Louder stomping. And I knew, with certainty, it was Mom coming after her.

I'm not an omniscient narrator, so I don't know what Vicki does when the door is locked.

But I do imagine she is reading. Vicki’s been using her Kindle that Mom got her for Christmas. She adores Gillian Flynn and Suzanne Collins. She's starting to get into Philip Pullman which is swagger. I remember reading His Dark Materials when I was in elementary school.

The Golden Compass ***** you into that world, like during June when you're hitting a bowl for the first time and you're 17, late at night on Bethany beach with your childhood best friend, and the surf is curling against your toes, and the smoke is trailing away from the cherry, and you begin to realize that life isn't all about living in NOVA forever, because the world is more than NOVA, because life is bigger than this hole, that to some people believe is whole, and that's fine, that's fine because many of our parents came here from other small towns, and they wanted to do what we wanted to do, which is to pack up our stuff into the trunk of our presumably Asian branded car, and drive, drive, until they reach a destination that doesn't remind them of the good memories and the bad memories, until memory is mixed in with nostalgia, and nostalgia is mixed in with the past.

Maybe I'm dwelling on backstory, maybe you don't need to hear the backstory.

But I think you do.

Life isn't an eternity,
what I'm telling you is already known, known since there was a spider crawling up the staircase and your dad took the heel of his black dress shoe and dug his heel into that bug. And maybe I'm buggin’, but that bugged me, and now I'm trying to be healthier eating carrots like Bugs. Kale, red onions, and quinoa, as well. Because I want to be there for my sister, Vicki my sister. All we got is a wrapped up box made from God, Mohammad, and Buddha.

Soon, I heard Vicki’s door handle being cranked down and up, up and down.

Mom raised her voice from a quiet storm to a deafening concerto.  
Then, there was silence, followed by a door slamming shut.

Welcome to our life.
Later on that night, Vicki sped out of our cul-de-sac in her silver Honda Accord—a gift from Mom to keep her rooted in Nova—and even from the front porch of my house, I felt a distance from her that was deep and immovable.

I sank deeper into my lawn chair and lit a jack, but instead of inhaling like I usually did, I held it out in front of me and watched the smoke billow out from the cherry.

I always smoked jacks when she was not there, because I didn’t want her to see me knowingly do this to myself, even as I was making huge changes to my life. It’s the one vice I have left, and it’s terrible for me, but I don’t know if she understands that I know both things. Maybe instead of caring about what jacks do to my body, I should care about what she thinks about what I’m doing to myself. This should be obvious to me, but sometimes things aren’t that obvious.


As we grew older Vicki and I forged a dialogue, an understanding. She confided in me and I confided in her, sharing secrets, details about our lives that were personal and private, as if we were two CIA agents working together to defeat a totalitarian government—our tiger mom.

But seriously our mom was and still is swagger as ****—rocks Michael Kors and flannel Pajama pants (If I told you that last article of clothing she'd probably pinch my cheek and call me a chipmunk. Don't worry I'm fine with a moderation of self-deprecation).

The other day Mom talked to me about Vicki and explained that she was upset and irritated with Vicki because of her attitude. I thought that was interesting, because I used to have the same exact attitude when I was my sister’s age and I got away with a lot more ****, being that I'm a guy and the first-born. I understood why she would shut the front door, exit our red brick bungalow, and speed away in her Honda Accord, going towards Clarendon, or Adams Morgan, spending her time with her extensive circle of friends on the weekdays and weekends.

Because being inside our house, life could get suffocating and depressing.
Our Grandparents live with us. Grandpa had a stroke and is trying to recover. Grandma has Alzheimer’s and agitates my mom for rides to a Vietnamese Church. Besides the caretakers, Mom, Dad, Vicki, and I are the only ones taking care of my grandparents.

Mom told me that she believes that Vicki uses the house as a hotel. Mom didn't remind me of a landlord, and I believe that Vicki doesn’t see her as that either.

I didn't believe Vicki was doing anything necessarily wrong.

She had her own life.

I had my own life.

Dad had his own life.

Mom had her own life.

I understood why she wanted to go out and party and hang out with her friends. Maybe she was like me when I was 21 and perceived living at home as a prison, wanting to have autonomy and freedom from Mom because she was attempting to make me conform to her controlled system with restraints. But as Vicki and I both grow older I believe that we see Mom not as an authority figure; but, just as Mom.

Vicky and Mom clash and clash and clash with each other, more than the Archer Queens of The Hero Troops clash with the witches of the Dark Elixir Troops.

They act like they were from different clans, but they're both on the same side in reality.

The apple does not fall far from the tree. And in this case the tree wants to hang onto the apple on the tip of its rough, and yet leafy bough.
Because the tree is rooted in experience and has been around for much longer than the apple.

But the apple is looking for more water than the tree can give it. So the apple dreams about a summer rain-shower that will give it a chance to have its own experience. A similar, but different one, to the darker apple that hangs from a higher bough, an apple that has been spoiled from having too much sun and water.


During Winter Break, Vicki scored me tickets to a game between the Wizards and the Bucks. From court side to the nosebleeds, the audience at the Verizon Center was chanting in cacophony and in tempo. Wall was injured. But Gortat crashed the boards, Nene' drained mid-range shots, and Beal drove up the lane like Ginsberg reading Howl.

Vicki and I both tried to talk to each other as much as we could; unfortunately, Voldemort—my ex-gf—sat in between us and was gossiping about the latest scoop with the Kardashians.

Nevertheless, Vicki and I still managed to drink and have an outstanding time. But I should have given her more attention and spent less time on my smartphone. I was spending bread on Papa John's Pizza and chain-smoking jacks during half-time, and even when there were time outs. When I would come back and sink into my plastic chair, I'd feel bloated and dizzy.
And I'd look over at Vicki and either she was talking to Voldemort, or typing away on her smartphone. I didn't mind it at the time, but now I wished I had been less of a concessions barbarian/used-car salesman chain-smoker, and more of an older brother. I should have asked her about her day and her friends and her interests.

But I didn't.

Because I was so concerned about indulging in my vices like eating slices of pepperoni pizza and drinking overpriced beer. There's nothing wrong with pizza or beer. But as we all know the old saying goes, everything is about moderation.

Vicki scrunched her nose and squinted her eyes when I would lean forward and try to maneuver around Voldemort, trying to talk to her about the game and the players in it. I imagine that when she smelled the cigarette smoke leaking away from my lips, that she believed I was inconsiderate and not self-aware.

After the game, we went to a bar across the street from the Verizon Center, and bought mixed drinks. Voldemort was D.D., so Vicki and I drank until our Asian faces got redder than women and men who go up on stage for public speaking for the first time.

I remember this older Asian guy was trying to hit on her.
I took in short breaths. Inhaled. Exhaled. I cracked my shoulder blades to push my chest forward.  

And then, I patted him on the back and grinned. The Asian guy got the message. You don’t **** with the bodyguard.

Vicki had and still has a great boyfriend named Matt.

I guided Vicki back to our table and laughed about the awkward situation with her.

The Asian guy craned his head toward me and did a short wave. And then he bought us coronas. Either, you’re still hitting on my sister, or it’s a kind gesture. She and I better not get... Or am I overthinking it?

But seriously, I wished I had been the one to spend money on her first—she had bought the first round of drinks. Because at the time, my job was challenging and low-paying. Or maybe I just wasn't being frugal enough and partying way too often.

I still remember the picture that a cool rando took of us, drinking the Coronas, and how I was happy to be a part of her life again. Our eyes were so Asian. I had my lanky arm around her small shoulders, like a proud Father. She had her cheek propped up by her fist, her smile, gigantic and beaming, as though she had just won Wimbledon for the first time.
I was wearing a white and blue Oxford shirt that she had gotten me for Christmas with a D.C. Rising hat. She had on a cotton scarf that resembles a tan striped tail of a powerful cat.

My face was chubby from the pizza. Her face was just right like the one house in Goldilocks. The limes in the Coronas were sitting just below the throat of the bottles, like old memories resurfacing the brain, to make the self recall, to make the self remember how to treat his family.
Or maybe this is just a brand new Corona ad geared towards the rising second-generation Asian American demographic? I'm playing around.
But end of commercial break.

Vicki pats me on the back and we clink bottles together. Voldemort is lurking in the background, as if she's about to photobomb the next picture. Sometimes I don't know if there's going to be a next picture.
Either we live in these moments, or make memories of them with our phones. And like sheep following an untrustworthy shepherd, we went back to our phones. She made emails and texts. I went on twitter in search of the latest news story.


Before Vicki and I opened each other's presents, I remember I blew up at Mom and Dad, and criticized everyone in the family room including Vicki. It was over something stupid and trivial, but it was also something that made me feel insecure and small. I was the black sheep and she was the sheep-dog.

I screamed. Vicki took in a deep breath and looked away from my glare, looked away to a spot on the hardwood floor that was filled with a fine blanket of dust and lint. I chattered. She rubbed her fingers around the lens of her black camera and shook her head in a manner that suggested annoyance and disappointment. I scoffed. She set the camera down on the coffee table and pressed the flat of her hand against her cheek, and glanced out the window into the backyard that was blanketed with slush and snow.
Drops of snow were plunging from the branches of the evergreen trees and plopping onto the patches of the ground, plunging, as though they were little toddlers cannonballing off of a high-dive.

She turned back and looked at me straight in the eye, so straight I thought she was searching for the answer to my own stupidity.

I cleared my throat and said, “I need a breath of fresh air.”

Vicki bit her bottom lip, sat down, and put her arms on her knees, a deep, contemplative look appearing on her face.

I stormed into the narrow hallway, slammed the front door back against its rusty hinges, and trundled down my front driveway, the cold from the ice and the snow dampening the soles of my tarnished boots. I lit a jack at the far end of the cul-de-sac and counted to ten. I watched the cigarette smoke rise, as the ashes fell on the snow, blemishing its purity and calmness. I inhaled. I exhaled. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach that Vicki knew I was having a jack to reduce my stress, stress that I had cause all by myself. I ground the jack against the snowy concrete, feeling the cold begin to numb my fingers that were shaking from the nicotine, shaking from the winter that had wrapped itself around me and my sister.

When I came back inside of the house, I told Mom and Dad I was being an idiot and that I didn’t mean to be such an *******. I turned to Vicki and put my hand on her shoulder, squeezed it, and smiled weakly, telling her that I didn’t mean to upset her.

She nodded and said, “It’s okay bro.”

But her soft and icy tone made me feel skeptical; she didn’t believe me. I didn’t know if I believed my apology. Minutes later, I gave my present to her.

Her face brightened up with a smile. It was a gradual and cautious smile, a little too gradual and a little too cautious. She hugged me tightly, as though my earlier outburst hadn’t happened.

She opened the bank envelope and inside was a fat stack of cleanly, pressed bills that totaled a hundred. Being an arrogant, noob car salesman at the time, I thought it was going to be a pretty clever present. I could have given her a Benjamin, but I thought this would make her happier, because it showed my creative side in a different form.

I remember seeing her spread the dollar bills out, as if the bills were a Japanese Paper fan. Vicki told me not to post the picture I had taken on insta or Facebook. I smiled faintly and nodded, stuffing my smartphone back into my sweatpants pocket. I understood what she wanted, and I listened to her, respecting her wishes. But I also wasn't sure if she was embarrassed and ashamed of me. And maybe I was overthinking it. But again, maybe I wasn’t overthinking it. Social Media, whether we like it or not, is a part of life. And in that moment, I actually wanted social media to display this a single story in our lives. I wanted to show people that Vicki was the most important person—besides my parents—in my life. Because I was so concerned with how people viewed me and because I lacked confidence, lacked security, and lacked respect for myself

Vicki's present to me was a sleek and blue tie, a box set of mini colognes, and refreezable-ice-cubes. I think she called it the car salesperson kit. But I knew and still know she was trying to turn me into an honest and non-sketchy car salesman. And you know what, I was genuine, but I also couldn't retain any information about the cars features—to reiterate my Grandma has Alzheimer's, my mom writes down constant notes to remember everything, and I forget my journal almost every time I leave the house.

After Christmas I wore the tie to work a few times, but the mini colognes and ice-cubes never got used by me. They stayed in the trunk of my Toyota Avalon. I should have used the colognes and the ice-cubes, but I was too careless, too self-involved, and too ungrateful.


Back in the 90’s, when we were around 3 and 6 years old, Vicki and I shared the same room on the far left end of the hallway in our house. She had a small bed, and I had a bigger bed, obviously, because at 6 foot 1, I was a genetic freak for a Vietnamese guy. I read Harry Potter and Redwall like crazy growing up, and I would try to invent my own stories to entertain her. Every night she would listen to me tell my yarn, and it made me feel that my voice was significant and strong, even though many times I felt my voice was weak and soft, lacking in inflection, or intonation.

I had a speech impediment and I had to take classes at Canterbury Woods to fix my perceived problem. I wanted to fit in, blend in, and have friends.
Back then Vicki was not only my sister, but my best friend. She used to have short, black bangs; chubby cheeks, and a dot-sized nose—don't worry she didn't get ****** into the grocery tabloids and get rhinoplasty. She wore her red pajamas with a tank top over it, so she looked like a mini-red ranger, and her slippers
Dedicated to my baby sister, love you kid!
sarah minks Apr 2012
Along the banks of Lake Shelbyville
That’s what I think of when it’s your birthday
A camp fire burning on a cool April night
We two drinking hot mauled cider
Or better yet “Hornsby’s Draft Cider”
Talking and laughing
Making up parodies
Parodies of Zeppelin and Floyd songs
Listening to the nightingales and the crickets
And watching fire light
That almost appears to be living
Watching slow rolling clouds, and feeling the whispering wind
Rolling in and out and over and under
The engaging light of the moon and stars
And maybe some of our friends were there
And maybe it was only us
Brother and sister
Best friends forever
Retelling stories of our past
Creating memories for our future
Waxing religion and philosophy
Such philistines, think my parents
And your parents don’t get it
And yes we have separate parents
And yes we have the same parents
(Adoption is a funny thing you see)
You are my funny BIG, BIG, BIG brother
Santa Claus, Sasquatch, Cave Man, and Viking
And I am your little crazy sister
Flower Child and Sacagawea
And it is your birthday
And I love you always
        Love, Sarah Jane Gillian Tiffany Michelle Whispering Wind Grider Minks Summers Jonathan George Washington Francis Fleming Greenlee Whiter Liston Hall
Aka Awesome Pagan Goddess
Today is my biological brother Jay's Birthday, some of my readers may not understand all that I write for the world to see but the ppl who know Jay and myself and have for a long time will get this poem I hope some of them will come across this poem, and for those of you who don't know us I hope you enjoy this work anyway.
harlon rivers  Dec 2018
harlon rivers Dec 2018
White violets in the window
Scarlett leaves tumble across
the mossy hidden stones
mound beneath a chilly winter's dawn

A cold wind bares the dogwood tree
where puffed out plumaged woodpecker
gleans on creations' plump red bounties,
beheld subsistence beget for feral wings

Bright crimson fattened rose hips season,
lingering in the frigid morning dew;
stirring warm memories of fruitlet tea's
steeped from gathered garden magic spells
A spoonful of love and raw honey mellowed
a life once so lovingly endeared

Hot Blueberry dutch-oven scratch biscuits
imbue the wafting fragrant air —
life's cherished moments tarry
in the head and heart;
sipped by ruby lips still tasting
the untamable passion
of a breathless goodnight kiss

White violets blossom in the window
the morning fire's crackle echoes
a pining  memories' gentle whisper
awakened by the incoming wintertide

A dulcet breeze not soon forgotten
— melancholy traces linger
like a passing season's swan song

as your memory — leads me on...

harlon rivers ... December 5th, 2018
Bella  Dec 2017
Bella Dec 2017
It’s been 17 years since your birth
Yet there isn’t a number to describe what your worth
It is more than the count of curls on your head
More than the amount of books that you’ve read
You could count all the stars and they wouldn’t compare
To the kindness you give and the love that you share
I’ll wish you much luck when you travel around
And when your head’s in the clouds don’t forget to look down
Because we’ll lose our smiles
But we’ll see yours for miles
What’s special about you, Gillian, my love
Well it’s just that, it’s your love
This was a poem to my good friend who was turning 17 and in her card I said that I wasn't very good with letters so I'd write her a poem instead.
Madison Curtis Apr 2015
Fashion and beauty retailers from across Hull are uniting to celebrate the region's independent shops.

The sixth annual Hull Business Improvement District (BID) Fashion Week is in full swing, with more than 70 retailers taking part. During the festival, business owners will showcase their best products and offer prospective shopkeepers an insight into how they have made their companies successful. Organiser Adam Clark said the celebration offered a platform for Hull's retail sector to demonstrate its strengths.
He said: "Hull Fashion Week celebrates and promotes independent retailers in Hull city centre.

"They are one of the driving forces to what makes our retail offer unique, along with our three city centre shopping centres and department stores."
Gillian Long opened her bespoke tailoring service, **** Of The Walk, in Hull two years ago.

The Savile Row-trained tailor will be opening up her studio to give prospective customers and fellow retailers a look behind the scenes.

She said: "I enjoyed Hull Fashion Week last year, but I did think there weren't that many men's fashion retailers or designers taking part, so I wanted to get more involved to show people what is out there.

"I think the event is a great thing to raise awareness about all the different independent shops out there.

"People might not realise we are here, but if you scratch under the service you will see there are actually lots of us who are doing really well."

Family-run jewellery firm Hugh Rice is another Hull company getting involved, with a meeting at its branch in St Stephen's shopping centre today.

Sales and marketing director James Rice said it would give fellow shopkeepers a chance to learn about the latest jewellery trends and let customers try on the latest pieces.

He said: "For us, it's just great to be involved in an event on this scale.

"We are a Hull company and we want to be as involved as possible in events like this, which promote the city and promote Hull businesses."
Mr Rice said it was an exciting time to be a city centre retailer in Hull.

"Around the marina in particular, there are lots of young, trendy shops emerging in an area that has probably been a bit neglected in the past year or so," he said.

"As we move towards the UK City of Culture in 2017, it's great to see more businesses thriving and I think it has given the rest of us something to aim for."

The week will culminate with a grand finale on Saturday, hosted by BBC Look North weather presenter Keeley Donovan.

big sleeper Jan 2021
Two years on, the bank bought the house
Your mother tried but couldn't make the payments
I tried as I could but couldn't keep it going
So many memories just left to fade

No trace of life, no trace of a body
You just went clear off the edge of the earth
Didn't bring a map, didn't plan to come back
Did you suffer, Gillian?

There'll always be part of me that remembers
But I know that there's always something missing
I'll try to move forward from this loss
But how could I make sense of it all?

I've been holding it all together for too long now
So much so I've forgotten myself
Been trying to be stronger than I used to be
Rebuilding to learn to love someone else

Where does love go?
Where does it bleed out?
What can be done to stem the flow
What can quell the hurt, what can ebb the tide?

Where does love go?
Where does love lost get found again
When does it stop hurting so much?
Oh, does it ever really stop?

Can I try to make connections new
With the ghost of you
Still lingering 'round all I know?
Can I try to keep my heart aligned
And try to pretend I'm alright
With you still missing from my life?
from "the island", a selection from a larger body of work
J Arturo  Jun 2014
J Arturo Jun 2014
If I survive the next few years, I may wish I'd written more about this time. My self is certainly transforming, but it's such a minimal bother to document it. It's 7:10 am. I worked at the bar until about one. Bill came by unexpectedly, and I went to his house and bought twenty grams for five hundred, as well as fifty worth of **** for Gillian. I suppose I've been high since about 11 o'clock.

John says that Bill is certainly the most intelligent man he's ever met. I used to feel that way about people. I spent the rest of the night at the bar, and then at the couch, talking to Sarah and Liz. Liz's last name is Oliphant. Sarah is Croatian. Liz is prettier. I would like to kiss either of them.

This **** may be better than last time, I'm not sure. As usual, as is whenever I get high, everyone leaves me in the early morning. It was around five this time. Maybe five thirty. As usual I thought to watch TV but Andrea looked so comfortable curled up on the couch in reception and I hadn't the heart to bother her. I learned a new word today: gallow, I believe it was... meaning to frighten. Or gallowed, meaning to be very afraid.

As is not usual, this time after I got in bed I did another line. Two in fact. And the largest I'd done all night. Because oddly this is the first time in the last month that I've stayed up all night without having anywhere to be, or otherwise any obligations the next day. I was going to go to the markets and buy pants. But I suppose a day in bed will justly stall that need for another turn at least.

And it had been a while. Actually I can't even remember when. The last time I was high by myself, and not overly drunk, and able to just stare up at the bunkbed slats supporting the German or French or Dutch fellow now above me and feel the unmoderated effect of the dear drug itself as she works through me. I know I'll regret this. I always regret it. But I was regretting it already and so to stall the regret and stare upwards for a few hours, treating myself to a little selfish time, seemed not the lowest of sins.

And I work at four. Four to eight thirty. So even if I don't sleep a wink and even if I continue to defy conscience and maybe do the one more line thing again, I can still power through. Can still sit leeward on the barstool and listen to 90's alt rock hits and putter through the motions of making it past eight. I can do that. And I can spend 30 minutes in this exaltation and then stare listlessly at the mattress above me and all its cartoon moons and stars while I debate the uselessness of my life and all the strings I've severed when I came here to drown.

Because this is a true story. It doesn't wrap up, or nicely. And there's no twist, but ongoing turns I guess. I'm a newborn, dripping with womb in a way and without even language or very many clothes: I feel much like one indeed. And I tried to buy a phone card today because it's something I need but the man told me to go somewhere else, gave good directions, and I didn't really understand. Likewise it seems will fail my dream for today to get out of this room, and buy new pants.

I can accept my grandfather dying. Every time I've seen him I've said goodbye. And he in his humble way, or maybe faith, always hints at see you soon. My grandmother sure. If anything somewhere maybe I expected the grief would take her. Or afterwards the dire space left between caring for her husband's ailing pains. But I always thought I'd know well before my mother would go. And now won't. And honestly never considered but now dramatically realize: I'll never be an uncle to my brothers' sons. Never see my sister find her place. Never see Brandy become the quiet dark eyed schoolteacher she is in my dreams. And also she will die and I won't see that, either. Not even anyone will call on the phone.

So I start with, "if I survive the next few years" because regardless those years will mean loss. Either loss of those loved, or more likely loss of that complex potential of mind... that once made space to love them. Or maybe better lost the own bitter instrument. And I say it all without condolence because each those ways feel, to me, tragic. Each way feels to me like something bright once in the world, that had to perish. I go forth with some sadness into the dark.
I've been trying to find a voice. It's harder in prose than poems. And I can't find fiction in myself, so I keep tormenting my life into the fiction I wish I could create. But every day baby steps I guess.
Manny  Feb 2014
Poetry Live 2014
Manny Feb 2014
I attended the Poetry Live event at Leeds Town Hall on Wednesday 5th February (this week) and it was a spectacular event.
I witnessed readings from Carol Ann Duffy, Gillian Clarke, Simon Armitage, Jackie Kay, Imtiaz Dharker and John Agard. Each of these poets are a true inspiration for me and their work is absolutely amazing. My favourite reading was from John Agard, who is an incredible individual and great entertainer!
Gillian Askeland Oct 2017
Life is like a guitar.
You can't play on broken strings
You can't be happy when you're broken.
You have to fix it before you're able to play.
-Gillian Askeland
Aaron LaLux Jun 2018
Cold as Hell,
as paradoxical as that seems,
I know I might seem humble it’s true,
even though on the down low I’ve got high self esteem,

watching Indiana Jones on the big screen,
got little time for nonsense,
even though we seem to make a big scene,

it seems,
that nothing is as it seems,
feeling like Indian Jones,
is it a *** of gold or a hill of beans,

more Jack than Jill,
more Mulder than Gillian,
and things are getting word like the X-Files,
some of the Lizard People are Chameleons,

or better yet Camillions,
money is their sun they bask in it,
on a rock in an ocean call it a continent,
not content at all with the poetic tragicness,

feeling repelled as 2 negatives,
yet as attracted as a magnet is,
anyways what’s my point,
I don’t know I suppose it depends on what your perspective is,

I just call it like I see it,
no filter unedited,
no hashtags just a hash bag,
actually I don’t even smoke that ****t,

not even a little bit,
that’s not my favorite intoxicant,
anyways I should probably get off my soapbox,
because I seems I am on a rant,

so that’s it I’m done,
heading back to my house in the clouds,
where I can write in silence,
and let me words be as loud as Hell,

cold as Hell,
as paradoxical as that seems,
I know I might seem humble it’s true,
even though on the down low I’ve got high self esteem,

watching Indian Jones on the big screen,
got little time for nonsense,
even though we seem to make a big scene,

it seems,
that nothing is as it seems,
feeling like Indian Jones,
is it a *** of gold or a hill of beans…

∆ LaLux ∆
Gillian Askeland Jan 2019
You are my Thanatophobia.

I fear to lose you.

My love.

Best friend.

The one who fills that empty void in my soul.

The one who fixed my heart.

You are my Thanatophobia.

-Gillian Askeland

— The End —