I hate it when you
start to think about
breathing.
There's nothing wrong with
breathing,
of course,
it's just that once the
thought enters your
head, suddenly
breathing
just becomes so
strained
manual
hard.
You start taking
in too
much air, or is it too
little?
And little by little,
everything just seems like it's
drowning.

everything is
crowded.

I'm not sure what's
real and what's
fake, or what's
good and what's
bad, or even why
I am still
here and not at
home and just
sleeping
relaxing
letting
go.
Instead I am
here.
I am trapped between
four men and
three strollers and
too many
cowboy hats to even
remember how many there
actually are.
All I can
focus on is how
absolutely
terrified I
am and trying not to
disturb anyone but
also trying to
get enough air in my
lungs that I don't
suffocate.

But that's really
really
really
hard to do
especially now
especially here

So please excuse
me for a
minute if I
make myself
small
or if I start to
whimper
or if I
cry a little
bit.
It's nothing I can
help.
But the worst thing about
it is that when
you're afraid of
parties or
stepping into the pantry or
the city bus,
it sometimes feels like there's
nothing you can
help.

And trust
me when I
say that
almost nothing is more
painful than being
useless.

There is just something
about your eyes.
Something hypnotic,
refreshing.
I don't know what it is.
But every time I look into them
everything is erased,
everything but you
everything but me
everything but us
and isn't that beautiful?

I am the rat.
There are always
roads that I can take,
and always
new places to be explored.
I am compact,
and I can
fit wherever I
want to go.
There is always
a surplus of food and
I eat well.
But sometimes,
the food is poison
and I am left with only
my dying breaths.
Some passages lead me only to
being hit with a broom.
I am called
filthy and disgusting.
But still
I find myself
smiling when I
wake because
it's **** well worth it being the rat.
-ignis

I have spoken to
the birds.
I have asked them about
how they know where
it is that they're going, and
every one of them revealed that
they do not.
They tell me that they just
flap their wings and
fly away and they don't need to
think about where they're
going because they rely on
themselves enough to be
assured that they'll end
up right where
they need to be.
But how do you
know where you need
to be, I asked
them, and they told
me once again that
they do not.
They just rely on their
wings to take
them there.
I wish I could have been
brave and spread my
wings and fly where
I need to go as the
birds left.
But instead I
stayed behind.
At first I was
ashamed of
myself for not
following suit but then
I realised that
maybe the reason I didn't
fly was because I was
already where I
needed to
be.
-ignis

It is strange, I
think, how insecure
clouds must
be; to always be
changing the
way that they
do.
They simply cannot
decide on which
form they
like best.
Or maybe they are
waiting for
us to
decide, because they don't
trust themselves with
big decisions like
how they have to be.
It must be awfully
hard for them to
determine all that just for
a little fall of
rain, maybe even one that
no one will
see. They must be so
conflicted inside, and maybe that's
what causes
lightning.

It has been
forever since I have been
asked, "How are
you doing?"
But that's
okay with
me, because I am
fantastic. I am
brand-new, and
shiny, and just
lovely, so thank you for
not asking because I am
proud that I can
say it for
myself.

The next time you
run, be assured I will
come after you.
Because I know that
last time I
didn't and how that
stung in your
heart like a dagger.
Unfortunately, there is
something about the way you
run. You trap me in a
labyrinth and that I can't hope to
navigate, and the way you
sprint so desperately
away makes me
think that you don't want
me to find
you.

The rigging is
set, Captain.
Brown rope, aye,
secured tightly - aye,
can be adjusted.
Here, I'll stand on this
chair and see how
it's looking - aye,
Captain, it's proper
tight now, it will
function just
well enough, sir.
Oh, Captain, the sea;
I can see the
stormy waves,
black and
turmoiled. Aye,
Captain, all rigging
set. All hands on
deck, yessir.
We can't very well set
sail with a chair on the
deck, Captain.
Permission to kick
it away?