You smell like green and brown and taste like cotton swabs and trees. When I see you I don't see you but I see rhythmicity. Your skin is liquid chocolate and your eyes are hot green tea. Your mind brings mine to philosophy and not radians nor degrees. I find you in the clouds and in the cycles of the sea, seeing that you say that we're just God in hide-and-seek.

Dear Life,

Get out of my life. I don't like you; I’m scared of you. I'm not scared of death; I’m scared of life.  I can't look at myself in the mirror without getting goose bumps; I can’t water a plant without screaming. I don't know why I'm afraid of life, I just am.

But maybe it has something to do with my mother; she hated death, so I decided to revolt against her by hating life.

Another thing I should mention is that I don't like school, because most learning has something to do with living. In case you're wondering, I don't like writing, and I’m terrible at it. So don't expect any Shakespeare, coming from me.  “Why are you writing this?” you ask.  Well, I'll tell you.

It was about a year ago, that I started going to talk to this weird    psychiatrist that my mother wanted me to see. So we talked and we talked, and I was not having fun because I hated talking.  The psychiatrist said that I should write about my phobia, to get all my anger out. I thought,” what a bunch of nonsense,” but I did it. Here I am now writing to you. I ‘m afraid you’re never going to write back and that’s fine with me. But if you do, I’m afraid of what you’ll tell me, anyway.  I’m scared that you’ll call me a coward for being afraid of something   that I’ve lived with all these years.



Signed,

       Collin.



  Dear Collin,

I received your letter a while ago and I have been contemplating your phobia for 2 years. For what you wrote was powerful.



You’re not a coward and I won’t scold you. I have a phobia of death. Everyone has a phobia of something or other. Your phobia is not unusual but just so few people these days care to express themselves.  You’re one of the first people to have written to me.  You’re not a coward; you’re talking to your fear, something that takes lots of courage.



There is no reason to be afraid of me. Why are you afraid of me? I don’t think your mother is the real reason. I think you’re just too scared to go out in the real world and breathe the living air. You’re not afraid of life, you’re afraid of what is in life. You’re not afraid of me, you’re afraid of the lives I create and what is inside of them.

Your mother cares about you. She wants you to conquer your fear. You can do it, simply enjoy what’s around you, and don’t be afraid. Because, beneath your fear is hatred and you have no choice but to love.

You can do it , Collin, I know you can.



Signed,

Life

Solving every problem
With a belly full of tea
And your feet
Hitting the treadmill
Shoulders taking on
The rowing machine
When dreams of mom dying
Keep you up at night
Who made the molecules
Behind your eyes
That shine
And glitter like Aztec gold
Through the green foliage
The right angles of your face
Looming like the himalayas
Annapurna and Everest
In the minds
Of mountaineers
And ex-boyfriends who can't forget
Your perfect china doll complexion
Rosy cheeks
A fake shade of delicate
You could hold up a bank with those eyelashes
Reaching for the sky
No time to call the police
Just put your hearts in my hands boys
And no one gets hurts

Put your toes on my shoulders
Sister
I'm always here for a boost
Take that leap sister
The world was
Made for you

In vain,
I searched my apartment
instantly
upon your departure.
My anxious eyes
and prehensile hands
hoping
and searching for a forgotten item,
a trace of your presence:

an old shirt,
a half-finished book,
even a bobby pin.

Until I gave up,
I found
nothing.
Retiring to my bed, however
afforded me the greatest find
imaginable,

my temporal security complete:
your scent lingers still in my sheets.

I was lying in bed when a memory came flooding back to me.
It was a warm summers day and we were taking it all in, on a beautiful, sheltered, Irish beach.
I clearly recall swimming out to that island, knowing you were there.
It was crowded, but I spotted you straight away.
I saw you glance at me through the corner of your eye.
I tried not to look in your direction for fear of you noticing,
But I felt your eyes on my barely clothed body.
I tried my best to stand in some sort of way that would enhance my non-existant beauty.
I stood straight, pushed my hair back and laughed with my friends,
Attempting to pretend you were not all that occupied my mind.
I liked that feeling of you watching me.
It made me feel attractive, powerful even.
And for a brief, glorious moment I felt that you wanted me like I so badly wanted you.

Worry had never been the cause
of his laughter lines, the kindly crow's feet,
except that moment; the time
we all realised.
Being old had other symptoms
than grumpiness, and white hair.

So, like watching a monument crumble,
we saw the old man shudder and shake.
Then with mouths agape, we knew
he had other flaws, our Old Wise Owl,
and so it turns out,
our Grandfather, placed on the pedestal tall,
was, in fact, afraid of heights.

Let the wind blow my memories away
Let the water wash my thoughts
Let the fire burn my dreams
As the earth takes what’s left of me

Isn’t it strange how we as writers choose our muse based off of its ability to **** us? Mine, a woman, a girl really. Her face is not beautiful it is fragile, nor is her body it is frail. She looks almost dead to me, freshly buried; hair thin and untouched; skin just now starting to fall off her bones kind of dead. I would think she was but for her eyes. Perhaps too close together and perhaps a little too big for her face but either way they echo the most wonderful hue of vein-blue. They are beautiful. They ruin me. They make me want to start a militia. Run down the street naked. Proclaim my love for blood. Open up my veins that on the surface promise one color but spill a completely different one. She makes me hate my body. Makes me realize its trickery, that it would promise me her eyes in my bloodstream but when I cut myself open to see them, to touch them I am left with nothing but me. My body, blood red when my favorite color has always been her eyes.