Click. Click. Click.

Up down, up down, up down.

On, off. On, off. On, off.

Florescent flicker. Light to dark.

Do I really want to see that face in the mirror?

Not tonight.

Click. Down. Off.

Black.

Slumped down on the floor.

There's an icy breeze through the window.

But my face is hot. Burning.

The hair on my arms is up. Attentive.

Seems they're the only ones.


Keep a hushed voice.

It feels like a whisper could wake the world.

It's shaken mine before. A second time wouldn't be surprising.

Black ink on my face. Track marks, so to speak.

Every breath is a catalyst for the next wave.

If I breathe to calm myself, it acts defiantly, and I cry harder.

There's an earthquake in my body. Shaking, trembling.

It rattles my heart.

If it's quiet, it's like it never happened.

Pull the blanket over me. A towel, actually, but it'll do.

It's like I've taken ten years away, stepped back into size four shoes.

I'm hiding under my covers.

In the black.

In the silence.

One, two, three...

Watch out for Mr. Boogeyman.

See, how it works is, if I can't see him, he can't see me.


If you never see me cry, I'm never sad.

If you never see me hurt, I'm never in pain.

Click. Up. On.

Light.

Open your eyes and look in the mirror.

Hello

Mr. Boogeyman.

Click.

Glassy eye.

While one sleeps, keep the second open blankly.

People believe you when you look at them. Stare at them. Break into them.

They'll believe in your strength. So you won't have to.


Tangled yarn.

Matted hair; red. Vibrant. Stand out before you stand up and sink.

Pull it. Yank it out in devastation, frustration, desperation.


Can you feel it escalate?


Ripping thread.

Twine comes tangled; tousled ropes of faith strung out. It's all a mess.

There's a breaking heart here somewhere. Dig beneath the filamentous skin.


If anyone dares to dig that long.


Stitching smile.

I'm tearing. Falling apart at every seam.

Stitch me...pin me back together. Lift me up; I'm weightless.


I present to you a plaster smile; don't forget to stab in dimples.

After numerous unfaltering years, it's wearing thin. A tiny break appears.


All the strings are coming loose.


Iron-on teardrop; a permanent stain on a withered face.


There are many uses for a Ragdoll.

Play with her. Use her. Dress her. Change her. Throw her. Hold her. Hate her. Tear her. Tell her.

Everything.

She'll never let it go.


Dance with her. Sleep with her. Hide her. Break her. Blame her. Love her.

Trust her.

Her stitching will hold. The perennial line of happiness will always prevail.


Ragdolls look brightly into any light. Opening lifeless arms to please. Everyone. Anyone who needs them.

Now, someone needs to need her.

A Ragdoll is good for many things. Fitting any character and criteria.

A Ragdoll can be selfless, ageless, fearless, reckless, seamless.


However.



Never






worthless.

If I could grab a star tonight and hold it in my hand,
I'd hold it out to you and hope it'd be enough to understand
how much I love the way we think together,
the way we breathe together,
and the things we see together.

In the dark you'd have the star to guide you straight to me,
and you'd be a lighthouse, so that everyone could see

You're mine.

Today I saw a cat.

It was a dead cat. Laying and withering on the side of the road. Struck down by wheels full force. It had no chance.

I wonder who's cat that was.

I wonder if they knew.


I pass The Cat everyday, twice a day, on the same road to and from work. I always look at it, to see how far the progression of it's complete disappearance has come along. Every time, I see less and less of The Cat. I feel bad for it's memory.

Death is a part of life, everyone knows that. I am sad that The Cat died, don't get me wrong, but I accept it's death as a necessary inevitability.

What I regret is that when the day comes that The Cat's body is gone entirely, who will remember him?

Will his memory be lost with his bones?

Is that what happens to us?


There is another cat on the road. Dead. Now 2 cats disappear together.

For their sake, and the sake of the short lives and memories they lived, I'll remember these cats. And hopefully, when the day comes that death touches on my shoulder, I won't be forgotten either.

(and maybe I'll see the cats again)

I was that quiet girl in the back of the class.

I watched. I listened. I could feel my brain tense and absorb what I would forget years later.

This face belongs to this name. But what color were their eyes?

Remember the date of the death of a man who I will never meet, but long to.

What was his most cherished memory?


I wanted to be her.


My subconsious controls the conscious memories I mentally concoct in my dreams. Why can I remember these now while I can't even remember my homework?

What happened to the girl in the back of the class?

Listening. Watching. Remembering dates, faces, names, colors, numbers, signs, places, books, words, memories.

I don't remember.


I want to be her. Still.


My dreams are more pertinent, more lasting than the reality. Why?

Lucid dreams.

I can control you.


I'll make up a name and match it to a face. I'll fly away. I'll become what no one will ever suspect, and succeed.


I remember my dreams. I remember every face, every name, every voice, every word.

But why can't I remember my homework?

I remember who I loved. But in my dreams...



I can't.


The girl in the back of the class. Why can't I remember her anymore?

In the dreams...

She's grown up now.

Every day is a dream. I remember my dreams. I remember

When I was that girl, did I dream about me? About who I would be years later? I dream about who I was, but what about what I would become?


I miss remembering those faces, names, dates.

But, everyone has to grow up.

Everyone has to wake up. Sometime.