You roll the words around on your tongue.
They dance a feather-light staccato
against the back of your clenched teeth.
Motes of dust gather on your still lips.
Silence is a story you tell yourself before bed
and when you hear birdsong banishing the night.
A bonfire rages in the back of your throat.
The smoke stings your eyes.
You do not speak.
You do not cry.

h.f.m.

verb

1. i am no stranger to tormentum, to cruciatu. i have become champion to my own mind, with dead languages on my tongue. Ego summitatem parietum and I will not be restrained again.

2. i choose to be unknowable, to be Intemerata. you must work to uncover my secrets, to comprehend my speech. my soul is not free to any who might stumble across it, as it once was. because of the past failures of others, anima mea constringitur, corrupta est anima mea.

3. calloused and consuevit i stare unflinchingly into the void. i almost welcome the glacies seeping into my veins.

4. pompous and presumptuous, is that what you think of me? you know nothing but my superficial mask. loqueris ad me and we shall see.

h.f.m.

Endless years
Eons
When does it end?
Will it ever?
I have seen empires rise and fall
I have seen lovers meet and break apart
I have seen the life bleed out of so many
Too many
But never myself
I have lived so long
Under so many names
I no longer know who I am

h.f.m.

who do you think we were
before the end of time?

i'm sure the words fell flat
and the songs couldn't even rhyme?

your eyes were still brown, i know
and the days flowed into night --
but all else had changed,
nothing could ever seem right.

you're the only constant
in this hectic, mayday world
i just hope that its iron-clad grasp
on you will soon uncurl.

One step at a time, on this lonely road.
One word at a time, that's the story's flow.
One song, one go. Put on a show.
One cry, final breath, sinking slowly down to death.

h.f.m.

Just. Eat a bowl of cereal.
Sit on the kitchen floor carefully so the milk doesn't spill, scoop the flakes into your mouth by the streetlights filtering in through the window.

Or climb out onto the roof.
Slip out your window, hip braced on the edge, and use your arms to pull yourself up, crossing your legs on the shingles and breathing in the stardust swirling around your head.

Create a masterpiece.
Dip a brush in some paint, use your hands to shape clay, choreograph a dance, script a play, write a poem, draw a spring day.

Make a blanket fort.
Tuck the blankets over the couch, pad the floor with cushions, and flick on the TV, so you can watch cartoons while wrapped in warmth like when you were a child.

Stargaze in the backyard.
Tiptoe out the back door, quilt tugged tight around your shoulders, spread it out over the dewy grass and stretch out, facing the clouds and counting the stars.

Learn Morse Code.
-.-. --- -. ...- . .-. ... .     .-- .. - ....     -.-- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.     .. -.     - .... .     -.. .- .-. -.- --..--     -.- . . .--. .. -. --.     -.-- --- ..- .-.     ... . -.-. .-. . - ...     -... . - .-- . . -.     -.-- --- ..-     .- -. -..     - .... .     ... .. .-.. ...- . .-.     -- --- --- -. .-.-.-

Have a shower.
Run the water hot so it'll burn when it hits your back, shed your clothes and step into the steam, breathing in the vapors and imagining that you stand in the heart of a geyser.

Go back to sleep...?
No, this elusive peace is distinctly one with the night, and it would be foolish indeed to throw away such a gift merely to function during the bland sunlight hours.

h.f.m.

Do people's raw emotions make you sweat?
Does what someone truly feels set you on edge?
Look into the void in a poet's eyes and tell me you are unafraid.

Fight or flight, you know you're gonna fly,
because how can you possibly hope to fight with soul?
Bare your own? That's laughable.
You'd never let yourself become that vulnerable.

Poets are anarchists above all,
according to Sir Herbert Edward Read.
I am of a mind to agree with him.

Can't take the brutal honesty of the depressed?
Can't understand what someone is thinking when they take a razor to their own skin?
Can't help but fidget when someone tells you about how they were ***** at the tender age of thirteen?
Can't take stories about mental illness, abuse, addiction, identity, abandonment, hate, rage, rebellion, brokenness?

Who knew words could instill such animalistic terror?
I'm calling you out. Face the music, and you might just survive.

Do you feel the ice crawling under your skin, the shivers down your spin? That, my friend, is called Truth.
You are one step closer to understanding.

h.f.m.

Hey, me, congrats! You made it to 25!
I'm glad.

Remember when you were young and full of angsty anxiety?
Yeah, great times!
I'm still living it now, though.
I'm not looking back at it, like (lucky) you.

It'll probably be funnier in retrospect,
cause right now it sure isn't.
I'm sure your chuckling to yourself,
wondering at your own dramatics.
(Had you ever been that self-centered?
Thinking what you had was really that bad?)

You may not recall,
but you used to need to write up a
mental list of why you needed to
wake up in the morning, just to
get out of bed.
And when you did get out of that bed, finally,
your limbs felt so heavy with exhaustion
that you wondered if gravity would
pull you through the earth's crust
and cradle you in its core.
You'd have been grateful for the peace.

But you've left that all behind, yeah?
You're an adult, in your prime.
You've probably got a job by now, finished university.
You might be dating, heck, even married!
Planning on having kids?

Is life running along like a well-oiled machine?
Everything going along according to plan,
tick-ticking off the boxes on your check-list.
The world's your oyster!
(Yeah, we never knew what they meant, either)

Have any advice for little ol' me,
to get through this chaotic (insignificant) mess?
Not that you'd be able to give it to me.

You're so far ahead as to almost be unattainable.
But hey, you're me, right?
If I color between the lines, on the straight and narrow, breathe,
I'll catch up to you eventually, right?

I 'm allowed to want nice things?

I can be happy?

So, Me of January 2026
25 years, eh?
Can we make it that far?

Hoping and praying,
Me of May 2018

p.s.
I'm counting on you. Meet you there.

h.f.m.