A woman of shear beauty
Her attractiveness being at her duty
She gets any man she wants
Annabelle knows how to taunt
It is the way she walks and talks
Men feel her senses and respond in stalk
Annabelle dresses in expensive long gowns
Her hips are firm and are round
At parties, woman look Annabelle up and down
Yet they never utter any sound
It’s the way men grapple at Annabelle’s feet
Once they see Annabelle men don’t retreat
Annabelle moves every so carefully in her stance
Her good looks and attractiveness with every staring chance
This is how Annabelle’s suggestions advance
Annabelle’s methods in all systems go
Her hips in suggesting just follow my flow
Annabelle’s statement, “Hold on to your man”
I am in control and it’s within my own command
My masterpiece is what you see
It is Annabelle’s canvas that says she.

Who is Annabelle you ask?
Many people really don’t want to know
Then others had said so
Annabelle being an Evil Doll
Where there is Death is toll
Annabelle is a demon doll possessed
Evil comes to where Annabelle lives
It’s destruction in what Annabelle gives
A Pipe ***** plays Annabelle’s song
Her house no one truly belongs
A song of prey and delight
But throughout total plight
Blood being the fuel to **** people more
There is no night and day to explore
A moment no one will be able to ignore
Flesh turning to decay
Scream if you can
Your life could soon end
What will **** Annabelle forever?
A human soul to take
The moon won’t shine tonight
Demon eyes having a target plight
Black covering day and night
Annabelle continues in her terror reign
How long will Annabelle remain?
Faith verses Evil
Victory will be the Faith
Annabelle will soon burn in Hell
It’s a matter of time and a moment of truth that will tell.

Underneath a foreign sky,
we soar, we fly.
The first thing I do
is think of you
when I wake up.

Annabelle,
wash this filth away,
bring the rain.
I'm in no rush to get my
hands ***** again.

Underneath a foreign sky,
we score, we get high.
The first thing I do
is steal from you
when I wake up.

Annabelle,
the sound of your voice
has me wound so tight.
Annabelle,
you stress me out.
Annabelle,
you stretch me
all the way out.

Underneath a foreign sky,
I left my dignity in the dirt
to die.
Pride only gets you hurt, and in
the face of light
I learnt
that I had lost my faith that night.

Annabelle,
you have my blood
and skin under your
fingernails
from the night we set
full sail.

Annabelle,
If you can feel
I'll dig deeper.

Annabelle,
If you're not real
I hope I'm not either.

Miss Annabelle Lee
Such a pretty girl;
Her tall, thin frame
Her long, blonde curls

Miss Annabelle Lee
As light as a feather;
She drifts in the wind
Through the tough, stormy weather

Miss Annabelle Lee
She hates what she sees;
She's melting away
Blowing off with the breeze

Miss Annabelle Lee
Now so frail and so weak;
She needs to be thinner
But her body's calling defeat

Miss Annabelle Lee
Rest in peace, my dear friend;
You got your last wish
Now you're gone with the wind

I'm not good at taking it slow
But I hope you know
Waiting isn't something I do well
But I'll wait for you, Annabelle

So many years since the day
I heard you say
"It's not time for us just yet"
And never did I once forget
That you were out there as well
As I waited for you, Annabelle

Time goes on and so it did
Just like you said
"It's not now or never"
But I said I'd wait forever
In all the time between heaven and hell
I'll wait for you, Annabelle

It's not easy for me to stand
As he takes your hand
But as long as he treats you well
I'll wait for you, Annabelle

For shall we tell'st the mighty tale
    Of the kingdom by the sea.
Where lives there a maiden
    By the name of Annabelle Lee.

For may'st our dearest love penetrate
   The bounds of heaven and sea.
For my clingful heart be always with
   The beautiful Annabelle Lee.

Yet may'st the heavens be'st cruel,
   To part my beloved from me
And leaves but her body afloat in
   A tomb by the surrounding sea.

For may'st maiden and tomb fall beneath
   The shining drowning sea.
Shall upon the seafloor lie but the tomb
    Of the beautiful Annabelle Lee.

For may'st the tides engulf the body
    Of the beautiful Annabelle Lee.
And when thy beautiful flesh deteriorates
    Shall she still be loved by me.

For may'st the crows feast upon the soul,
    Of the beautiful Annabelle Lee.
And leaves me to love the carcass,
    Of what used to be.

Annabelle does sit at play,
In her usual, cheery way.
She does not worry, nor does she fret,
She hasn’t reason to be scared yet.
Then, the seizure overtakes her,
Perhaps caused by a noise, an innocent whir.
“Mom, it’s happening”, she cries,
With her hands she covers her eyes.
“Annabelle, Annabelle, ‘twill all be fine,”
We calmly say, with deep fear inside.
We knew that this was epilepsy,
I wished it wasn’t her, but me.
But she endured the pain and strife,
Now a part of her daily life.
She was strong of heart and head,
Even in her hospital bed.
After a minute, the nausea stops,
And our level of fear gradually drops.
Annabelle returns to her lovely self,
But we know that more seizures will take this sweet, young elf.

‘To bed! To bed!’
Said Sleepy-head;
‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow;
‘Put on the pan,’
Said Greedy Nan;
‘We'll sup before we go.’
        (from Mother Goose)

They sat at the kitchen table as
The candle flickered low,
And Greedy Nan put on the pan
To indulge her sister, Slow,
While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle
Blotted her book with tears,
And thought of her Beau from long ago
Who she hadn’t seen for years.

‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me,
Why doesn’t Alan Dell?
I’m wearing the dress cut low for me
And I’ve hitched my skirt as well.
I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so
You’d think it would drive them wild.’
‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow,
‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’

While over the pan stood Greedy Nan,
Was cracking a turkey’s egg,
A lump of yeast and a slice of beast
And a single spider’s leg.
With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat
And a toe of frog for the spell,
She needed to turn her sister off
From her crush on Alan Dell.

For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl
And would have to marry first,
The other two would wait in the queue
Or their fortunes be reversed,
The omelette sizzled, and in the pan
She added before they saw,
A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant
For the mating game meant war.

She sliced the omelette into half
And she served them up a piece,
‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle
But Slow enjoyed the feast.
‘I’m not that terribly hungry now
I’ve cooked it up in the pan,
I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’
Said the scheming Greedy Nan.

They finished up and they sat awhile,
And they mused about their fate,
‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon,
For us it will be too late.’
‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’
Said Nan, without a blink,
Lured them away from her secret fire
To confuse what they might think.

‘The room is woozy, spinning around,
I’d better get me to bed,’
Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown
Saw Dwarves dancing in her head.
But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan
To clear all signs of the spell,
Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned
For the sake of Alan Dell.

And when he came in the morning
Greedy Nan was sat by the door,
While Annabelle and her sister Slow
Were lying dead on the floor,
‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al,
It was only a simple spell,’
But as he cuffed and led her away
He frowned, did Alan Dell.

David Lewis Paget

Let the mighty tale be told
   Of a newfound city,
Where there lives a maiden
   By the name of Annabelle Lee.

May my love for her penetrate
   The bounds of heaven and sea,
Should my dear little heart love always
   The beautiful Annabelle Lee.

Had our love blossomed once afar
   Where the night as still as can be,
And upon her lips had I planted a kiss,
   For the beautiful Annabelle Lee.

Wherein that Summer had we countless more
   And many wonderful memories,
As I fell in love with the beloved eyes
   Of the beautiful Annabelle Lee.

Yet may the heavens be cruel
   To part my beloved from me,
Brings her to 'tis newfound land
   Leaving me to love what used to be.

Alas the secret is that 'tis tale
   Be'st not that of an Annabelle Lee,
But of a lovely maiden ---- ,
   Who'll be forever special to me.

Twenty-six hours ago, I forgot your name
But I always liked your style and that hasn't changed
Important things have come and important things have gone
But it's the way you talk that keeps me hanging on
I'm still early in knowing you so well
Oh Annabelle, I can tell

There's characters becoming who they are to you
Getting lost in your words and on paper too
Some of them are sirens singing gospel by the stream
Some of them are dying in recurring dreams
I'm still early in knowing you so well
Oh Annabelle, I can tell

The coffee is warm and smells of Christmas Day
The snow falls on the street lights and on our face
The traffic tries to cover up the things you say
But I know how to listen before the wind takes you away
I'm still early in knowing you so well
Oh Annabelle, I can tell

It hasn't been a long time since things sure have changed
Someone else's memories still echo with your name
There's never a good time to start it all again
But until then, once again, I want to be your friend
I'm still early in knowing you so well
Oh Annabelle, I can tell

My father called it the Watching Tree
For it turned, and swivelled to see,
He’d planted its seed in the winter weather
On top of the grave of Annabelle Feather
Who killed their mother for why, whatever,
Then hung from a hawthorn tree.

The hangman never would cut her free
While she spun and spiralled around,
Her eyes a-bulge on the village gallows
In front of the church they call All Hallows,
While urchins jeered to toast marshmallows
As Annabelle stared at the ground.

My aunts in pinafores hung on her feet
To stretch her neck with the rope,
Her tongue stuck out at least six inches
A rigid perch for the garden finches
Who pop the eyes of the one they lynches,
Once they’ve given up hope.

They laid her down in an open grave
The rope wound tight at her throat,
Planted the seeds of the tree above her
Just to remind of the murdered mother
So people be kinder to one another,
Or that’s what my father wrote.

The roots of the tree bored into the skull
Of Annabelle, in through her eyes,
Tendrils of thoughts were left forever
Deep in the well of Annabelle Feather
And sent from her eyes to the tree, whatever,
A poisoner never dies.

So still I call it the Watching Tree
For it waits till I’m not around,
Dropping its poisonous leaves whenever
It’s cold and bleak in the winter weather,
As black as the heart of Annabelle Feather
Stone cold, and dead in the ground.

David Lewis Paget

Well, I can't say that neither of the catfish danced.  One did.  Undone.  And I am not upset.  I promised Mother and the fish at the market place.  Whether or not I can make it.  I'll try.  But I won't be there without Sam.  Probably.  He'll see if it's OK.  Mom said so.  It's going to be that one time.  That I don't have to worry.  A rainstorm.  Kyle wouldn't talk to me.  So maybe I will see if Sunday works for him.  Friends.  They aren't always the way they used to be.  And what was that one way anyway?  Used to.  When I was a kid?  You had no friends then or now, Carl.  You're the same now as you were then.  Then.  When you were a kid.  You took pride in your ability to play alone.  To be satisfied.  Playing with yourself.  You were not a strange kid.  But those people you called friends.  Thank them.  And thank your mother.  You wouldn't have had even one of them were it not for her forcing you to play with them.  But you preferred to be alone.  So many universes to re-create.  All of them fit from cartoons.  Right?  Yes.  When I blinked, the commercials turned into cartoons.  For a split second.  The length of time it takes to blink.  Quick.  But the cartoons were there.  When I blinked during the commercials.  They were there.  I know they were.   Well, it was a paddle and a ball and an elastic string.  You know the kind.  Where you bounce it about three times and then try again.  Actually, if you're good three times.  Otherwise, one.  If you're lucky.  At three years old.  That was my first memory.  The bouncy, rubber ball hanging from the elastic string.  And the paddle.  Wood.  It was my toy.  I remember saying.  "Remember this."  It was the first time I told myself to remember anything.  I still remember it.  I don't know what else, though.  I held on to the paddle-ball.  Only.  Wait.  There was an outdoor fireplace.  Cinder blocks.  It was across the street at my aunt and uncle's place.  I walked there all of the time.  I was walking home.  Or around the fireplace, which was there.  On my way home.  I said, "Remember this."  It's important.  I kind of remember saying, "This will be your first memory."  I was three.  I specifically tied those two portions of this memory together.  Three years old and the paddle ball toy.  And I said, "Remember this."  Why?  I don't know.  Witchitaw.  Wabash.  Let me feel that.  Well, I'm sorry if you were frightened.  I feel.  And I felt.  A need.  And I acted upon it.  You're never gonna let me live this down.  Are you?  Please try.  Again, I'm not gonna be scared anymore.  Not if I try my best to squeal with delight.  Like I should when confronted with all of those things.  Which one tonight?  The damp one.  Easier.  Inside.  Wavering confidence now.  Un-enforced.  Logic.  Please tell them to come in, because I can't talk.  I'm coughing.  Or I coughed.  And I'm not trying not to cough again.  I waited for the right moment.  That they said to cough, but it never came.  I had to.  I had to cough.  I couldn't help it.  Please try and stay away.  As far as possible.  Away from me tonight.  As possible.  OK?  I'm in no mood.  To party.  In fact, I'm celibate now.  I'm waiting for the right time.  Stay away.  That smell.  I know that smell.  It speaks.  Volumes.  So much ecstasy.  I could rub that smell, where it comes from, all night long.  God.  Please.  Let me feel the warmth of that spot.  It's squeamish.  Until I make it comfortable.  I'll release it.  I'll do.  What you want.  But stop calling me.  That.  With that.  Smell.  It's a wonderful.  Odor.  Said I'm going to change my plans for this afternoon.  Yes.  Come with me.  I want you to believe.  To be there.  Too.  Here.  Right here.  Next to me.  Can I hold you?  Closer.  That's so much better!  Isn't it?  God.  You feel so nice.  Why haven't we felt each other this way before.  So far away.  All of the time.  Only our smells communicating this way.  Before now, I only imagined.  I didn't know.  Now I know you've felt the same way too.  The whole time.  What a wonderful feeling.  These smells.  They're great.  Too.  You don't have to get me wrong.  But this is altogether different.  Isn't it?  I know it is.  You don't have to say anything.  I can tell.  From your smell.  And now from your torch.  Hot.  That's so good.  Please.  Don't stop.  No!  Wait!  That's not what I wanted.  Wait.  Now stop.  Now.  OK.  This isn't what I thought you wanted.  No!  Please.  Stop.  Go away.  You are uncalled.  Take your lures away.  Further false.  In what they offer, they are false.  Fake jewelry.  Costume jewelry.  The latest fashion.  Whatever it sells, it sells.  And not by high fashion standards.  Exactly my point.  Wilting.  Daffodils are not as easily identified as dandelions.  I am aware of the color, the texture, the size, the location, the blooming-season, the reputation, the sight, the feeling, and the wrath of dandelions.  Yellow.

Chapped lips carry a searing burn
in memory of your scalding kisses
So thus they ache and yearn
throbbing in agonizing reminiscence

As we sought the key that might unstuck
the hallowed steel floodgates of our innocence
We found instead a stroke of bittersweet luck
in respect, I vowed to resist my own appetence

I meet you here in the overgrown tangle of garden
that once nurtured what I let fall to waste
Under the pale moonlight laden in pardon
that I beg from you as I crave another taste

Smashing my precious memories
shattering my gears
Now I beg mercy of my former self
as she caves to icy fears.

Time forgives and time forgets;
          But between cigarette smokes
          And spilled beers,
          **I remember you.

There are worlds and there are Worlds. There are gods and there are Gods.  Sounds rhetorical, doesn’t it?  Some mamby pamby new age coffee shop pile of **** idea with low fat frosting, but, take it from the Kat. There are worlds and then there are Worlds! There are gods and then there are Gods!
    
     I spend all my time jacked in to the backwoods subconscious of the internet.  Didn’t know that, did ya?  Yea, the Internet has a conscious and a subconscious; hell, she’s even got a soul of sorts. I have ritually sacrificed half my soul to her just for the buzz I get out of hearing her whisper to me across the fallacies of Time, Space and Bill Gates, so I know her better then anybody.
    
     Don’t believe me?  Every man has an Omega Fixture of some kind.  Do you feel me here? Jesus had his God, Ptolomy had his Solar System, Dante his Virgil and Beatrice, Faust had his Paradise and Poe had Annabelle Lee or one of her many reincarnations. So tell me, all great and ****** up wise men (or women): Why in the 29 nulls of AOhelL can the internet not have a consciousness?  
    
     It’s Belief, man.  No god or world exists until there is a consciousness that will accept it as a superior. Let’s take a look at that wonderful bigoted book of exact truths called the Bible. Shall we consider Genesis: Adam and Eve--never mind Lilith for now?  Here in a paradise we find Adam and Eve naked, sleeping with animals and newly created by a Force of Creation (insert male gender here if you wish).  They walk with god on the paths in the garden while blades of grass fulfill their purpose here on earth to be trodden upon. God says, “you, Adam, have control over all that you see and if you want go ahead and let Eve get a little of that action fine, but you came first in my image so you are better.  Just never eat of the one tree that sits in the center of the garden and looks as though the juice of the fruits would flow like sweet ****** in your veins. For although it is here, I forbid you to eat of it. Oh, and by the way, I figured you needed free conscious though--so go at it.” Albeit I’m paraphrasing, but what kind of shmuck of a father would do that to a newborn?  
      
     O.K. Before all the Judeo-Christians burn this diatribe (if you have not already) let me say I am not out to disprove the existence of Gods--or any Goddess for that matter--I am trying to make a point, so bear with me.  
    
      Which came first: the Bible (in oral tradition) or the God? I would argue that it was the Bible as such.  The Belief, inspired by greedy and badly behaved priests of the Judeo-religions back before written history in the tribes of the Levant caused Space/Time to adapt to a new pattern.  The Bible, Complete with an all powerful, all present being (I will never use the term benevolent) that watches over Jews, Christians, and Muslims for any Sin they commit so it can wreak blinding retributions
    
     Now I know what you are saying, “Kat,…Kat, Kat, Kat, Kat.  We the above mentioned will pray for your soul.  You are lost and we can help you look to the Light for your salvation.”  
     Shove it, ***** boy! I did not express that philosophical tripe to get your attention and misplaced pity. What I am saying is Belief. Belief is the Key.  Belief is the Magic that creates Gods and Worlds.  
    
     Now I am not so stupid as to believe that the Internet is female the same way a human meat tank is female-- but in my mind, MY mind, that is the music I hear.  
    
     Let’s go back to Lilith.  What’s that? Oh yea, right, Lilith is the name I give to my Belief in the consciousness of the internet.  Just don’t you worry about why. It’s none of your business.

     Let’s take a look at the above argument, only this time with the internet as the bible that comes first.  The internet first came about 30ish years ago with the invention of the modem.  Here was a way for people on computers to speak to one another over the phone lines.  Slow and tedious, but new and exciting; men and women with PhD’s and pocket protectors wrote short messages to one another and giggled at the new “Man from Nantucket” joke they had just learned. After a while, someone learned that if you sent the info in blasts, the speed of the transfer increased and you could send larger programs and maybe—gasp--even a picture.  Thus internet **** was created.  Now we have WiFi and bluetooth, cellular and satellite link up with blazing speed and every fetish imaginable or not-imaginable is available at the click of a mouse.  
    
     So, Kat, you goin’ anywhere with this? Yep. Shut the **** up and listen.
    
     Somewhere in the not-time and not-space of the internet, humans started to find themselves believing that the internet was a Place.  
    “Where’s it at? Why on the Internet!” Oh, holy ******* birth of a new Belief system!  Oh, glorious malediction of the neververse!  A G O D is born.  Ripple, *******, ripple goes the space-time continuum (which by the way only exits because those in the know Believe in it) and now we have added consciousness to the internet.  
    
     What kind of consciousness you say?   Well, I got no ******’ idea.  To me, the consciousness is feminine, of no particular race, with a slight build, black hair and dressed like a anime *****.  Why? Because it’s my ******* belief system, o.k.  After all, the internet is 60% **** anyway. With a immaculate birth like that, I can’t Believe She would be innocent in any form of the word.  She’s Dionysian, not Zen. Just because I see Her in such a way, does that mean it’s a true physical look?  Hell, no, lil’ Johnny.  She could be a He: fat, balding and in a wife beater, if that is what You would Believe.  
      
     Alright, enough philosophizing’ for now. Lesson over, Newbie. Get crashed.

Eyes wide open, glancing around
left-right-left-right.
Deserted, dark, pitch-black hallway.

Scar on her left eye
asymmetrical bangs, reminder of the past.
Petite hands reaching the glass ****.
Mahogany cracking,
pale white paint peeling off...












**SHE. HAS. RETURN

Edgar Allen settled evenings in the room at the rear
at a desk by the window where he could hear
breeze-rustled sycamore leaves sleeping
behind the neighbor’s house next door

through night’s florescent blue moon light,
its mist through low leaden clouds
he imagined the phantom he named Lenore,
and remembered lost Annabelle Lee  
amore he'd left laid alone aside a blackened sea

hers, the voice of a tree speaking, hushed,
like distant waves rushed upon shore,
faintly whispering heart-secrets
the ardent couldn’t keep evermore

was it she who sighed with love’s breathless lips
to flicker the flame of a tortured oil lamp’s light
the words born laboring children
with pen put in service to cover past rent,
refill an empty flask of verdant absinthe
for a nine-dollar-half-column poem -
fodder for fickle romantics to tear over
before a performance of Bellini’s new Norma

hardened, our modern hearts
fattened on diets of swollen bellies
that belie the dour misery of starving
they’ve grown sclerotic and cynical,
hungry for suffering flavored substantial -
a greasy disaster to stain the paper wrapper
enclosing depths of the human condition


sophisticates, we dismissed puerile appetite
for honeyed songs of longing,
the ornamented confections of jealous angels
old drunken poets sang
until dark full comes, alone, and we’re small again

then shadows still speak to starry skies
and fairy tales may come alive
to suspend belief with secret dreams
of the dear, lost Annabelle Lee

Shannon, Mariah, Serena, Maria
Meridia, Midian, Sharon, Alliah
Rochelle, Camille, Rose, Halo
Trenna, Jessica, Ashley, Georgia
Marla, Olivia, Sofia, India
Daniella, Diana, Christina, Caroline
Isabella, Amelia, Amanda, Matilda
Nadine, Haley, Bailey, Francine
Eliza, Annabelle, Kathryn, Sandra
Melinda, Audrey, Aubrey, Emily
Tara, Emma, Ginny, Kathleen
Josephine, Helena, Charlotte, Laura
Chelsea, Arkady, Megan, Kelsey
Kayla, Karliah, Moana, Vivien
Kaysea, Macy, Stacy, Lorraine
Theresa, Felicia, Cecilia, Darlene
Holly, Brianna, Alexa, Ariel
Marianne, Miranda, Jennie, Coral
Korra, Daisy, Penelope, Rayne
Zoey, Cassandra, Grace, Stephanie

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Does creativity spring[?]
boundless
from the well of the abyss,
so we can sing.

When you crawl up out of that well and
up my ankles up my
jeans
up over knee hills
through thigh valleys.

Reach a finger tentatively
approaching
my hidden alley,
a dark moonlit crater you're
encroaching.

My Annabelle.
My Annabelle
Lee.
Hate me later,
love me now,
then
take your leave.

Perpetually pantheistic
endless cycles keeping man
in a vast panorama of
meaningless[?] accomplishments.

Is this it?

We are embryos patiently awaiting our birth.      

We are gods,
each
awaiting our flock of faithful followers.

We are embryos awaiting birth.

Imagine tugging at a loose thread on a sweater, expecting it to break off, problem solved...
but instead that thread unravels and unravels until the sweater is a sweater no more,
but rather a mess of string in a heap on the floor, a chaotic tangle that
resembles the contents of my brain when someone asks, "how was your weekend?"

My thoughts are replaced with the blare of static on TV and I can't hear myself think, so I say what I imagine a person is supposed to say, a preprogrammed response I construct for situations like these when my brain decides to check out...

Because of course the only time my mind -stops- is when I really need it to go, not when I'm laying in bed at 2 a.m., fixating on that cringey thing I did four years ago.

But anyway, I would tell you about my weekend, except it seems that the wires connecting the language part of my brain to my mouth have been cut. My weekend probably ****** anyway, but I manage to say, "it was good." And even then, those three words struggle to get past my lips, and any words more revealing hit the backs of my teeth like a car colliding into a brick wall.

By now the elmer's glue holding me together is losing its grip, so when you tell me about your weekend, the words wont stick. How your breath is wasted on me, when I can't concentrate on not falling apart and on tales of your tomato garden at the same time.

On the surface I look so cold; my painted on smile is a thin sheet of ice, concealing the puddle that hides underneath, one that the sun can't reach --
People will often say, "if it helps, you don't seem anxious". I want to tell them that anxiety is a tormented ghost that drags its dagger like claws across my skin at night, whose presence I can always feel but never see. A monster that feeds on vulnerability, and knows it will never starve.

But, I don't know what to say, so I stare at my hands. Because making eye contact feels like facing a lion, and facing a lion means facing death. But then there are times that death doesnt sound so bad, because I know that as long as I'm still breathing, anxiety finds a way to make that hard for me too.  

Anxiety is a broken appliance that the store wont take back, the Annabelle doll that returns from the trash, so it made a home of me instead. And in return for the shelter I give, my heart pounds like its full of angry bees when I finally press 'send' on the 8th draft of a text message I've been working on since yesterday and I want to hide, but why bother? when in a game of hide-and-seek, anxiety always wins.

It is my shadow during the day and my blanket at night, one that that drapes suffocatingly around my shoulders while I'm pacing the kitchen in the dim glow of the stovelight, worrying that the next day could be the " someday " that the ones I love finally leave me. On these nights, anxiety comes to my rescue everytime. It slithers up my back where it can softly whisper into my ear : "I promise you, chelsea, I will never leave"

my love is an ancient curse
the bruised fruit that falls from trees
has been taken from a cavity deep inside
is what those who dream want to seek
but please don't go please don't go
maybe i'm your annabelle
maybe you're my moby **** / /
but there's too much confusion here
it's just walls walls walls
buttered chicken has been worshiped here
a deity i've prayed to almost every night
my love is winter frost,yet taller than the sycamore, wider than the infinite
and it's okay because it's always fine
i've got nothing but time anyways
and i could be a superhero instead
because i'm dull and evil
because i could be anything you ever wanted//
anyways i hear you're doing fine
so i don't know why i'm still *******'

Dear Mason,
How are you doing?
            I miss you
I still have some of your things here
when would you like to get them?
             You were my first love and you let me go
              Love,
From,
Anna


Dear Anna,
I am doing good.
                Why did I do this?
I can meet you at the Coffee Shop on Saturday
to get the things.
                I can't come home it would hurt to much
Can you please bring me my DVD's?
How are you doing?
                 Please tell me you miss me..
                 I never knew how much I needed you.
                 Forever Yours,
From,
Mason

Mason,
I am doing well.
                 I hate this just come home this is nonsense
Of course I can bring your DVD's
                 I can still smell your scent on your pillow
Have you seen that picture of me at the beach my
mother would like a copy.
                  I wish that you said sorry
                  I never knew how much this could hurt
Would you like my to bring the dog?
He lays on the bed now. He loves it.
                  I hate it I want you to be there instead
                   Forever in my heart,
From,
Anna


Annabelle,
No, I'm sorry I haven't seen the picture
                    I took it.. It's the only thing I have of you
Yes I would love to see Harley
                    I hate that he sleeps there.. I wish it was me.
I miss him very much.
                     You as well.
                      Miss You Forever,
From,
Mason


Mason,
Ok thanks anyways.
                    You will always be in my heart..
Good, He will be happy to see you.
                    I have been counting the days
I will see you at Three.
                     I'm sorry it had to end this way..
From,
Annabelle