.

page one
it starts with the wave of a hand
a simple introduction
'hi, what's your name?'
it starts with looking and seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes and human
it starts with feeling no cliche butterflies in your stomach
and no additional voice in your head
amongst the others
and no rapid pulse in your still-beating heart

page two
somewhere along the way the waves turn into inside jokes and small smiles
crinkles by the corners of eyes
and light chuckles
and glancing just a millisecond too long

page three
and, well, glancing just a million times too often

page four
and you write poems in attempts to make yourself believe
to drown yourself in denial
to avoid confronting the - nonexistent - blooming bud growing
sprouting from all angled corners
and cracking curves
and jagged edges of you

page five
spoiler: it doesn't work

page six
and it's strange because apart from seeing what is there you see more
or really you don't see what is there
you see what you want to be there

page seven
you see skin and bones and beauty and freckles and stars and constellations in eyes and ethereal -

page eight
perfection

page nine
except perfection doesn't exist
and what you see doesn't exist
it's just your unrealistic expectations piled up from miles and smiles of movies and books and manga and everything

page nine
and you know this

page nine
but it goes into one ear and out the other

page nine
and it doesn't stop you from claiming

page nine
you're in love

page ten
if love is just infatuation with a physical manifestation of your ideals without their consent
then i guess you're right

page eleven
there are butterflies bending, banging on you, begging to be released

you wonder when your definition of beauty became a name and a face
and you wonder when love became synonymous to pain

page twelve
the butterflies turn into birds and then bears and then freaking buildings
except these building are moving and apparently earthquake proof because you can't seem to break them down
instead the buildings are breaking you down

but the truth is no, no they aren't
don't you see?
you're breaking yourself down

how do you heal if you are both the poison and the antidote?

page thirteen
if only you could rewrite the story
but how could you?
how do you rip the pages
how do you erase the sickeningly sweet
slow stabs slicing through your spine every time a smile is sent your way
how do you mute the thudding in your brain telling you that this could never be
how do you ignore the extra echoes in your head yelling at you to get yourself together

how do you get yourself together?

page fourteen
you've been asking so many questions lately
but you know the answer to all of them

page fifteen
there's a small voice
a minuscule, malevolent voice whispering maybe
whispering maybe and perhaps and potentially
maybe you're not the only one who wants to hold on just a little longer

page sixteen
but see
it's funny how the story starts with two people and now it's just one person with an overactive imagination
illustrating a person as something more
something better

page seventeen
but you're not creative enough to keep your illusion for too long
and soon you start to see less of what you want to be there and more of what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human

human

page eighteen
human is ugly and human is cruel and human is wretched
but human is somewhat
beautiful
in its ugliness
and human is raw in all its dishonestly
and human is real
even if you made it out not to be

page nineteen
you will never truly now human
you will never truly know anyone or anything that isn't a figment of your imagination
but it's enough

page twenty
it starts with seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human
and then it ends
the story ends somewhere
anywhere really
but it ends

Drip
Drip
Drip...
Goes the blood from the blade

Splat
Splat
Splat...
Goes the blood on the floor

Squeak
Squeak
Squeak...
Goes the mouse on the floor

Sniff
Sniff
Sniff...
Goes the mouse to the blood

Lick
Lick
Lick...
Goes the mouse to thw blood

Choke
Choke
Choke...
Goes the mouse on the floor

Fall
Fall
Fall...
Goes the mouse on the floor

Die!
Die!
Die...?
Goes the mouse on the floor

Ha
Ha
Ha...
Goes me :)

After taking a gulp of water, M. opens a new Word document, inhaling deeply. He begins to write a sort of Introduction or Author’s Note:

‘This is to be my first real poem. No *******, cheesy rhyming or painfully forced verbiage. I am now only a seeker of truth…’

M., having just crushed two Focalin pressed pills, rolls a five-dollar bill and proceeds to insufflate, pausing momentarily when the line is halfway finished; he exhales before immediately finishing it off. His sinus burns fiercely. There is something masochistic about his preferred method of ingestion w/r/t pills. And but with a sudden albeit expected (in fact, M. was utterly beholden to it) rush of vitality, M. spends the next ten minutes finishing his half-page poetic manifesto [sic] (which term he actually wrote as a heading. “Poetic Manifesto”, that is), before beginning what he considers to be the first stanza. He likes that the location of the beginning of his poem is ambiguous. And so he begins thusly, consciously avoiding conventional rhyme scheme, instead opting for what he considers to be abstract.

‘My first poem, ostensibly an attempt at catharsis, was in fact a failed expression of my latent desire to be accepted. For today it’s a poem and last week a novel; tomorrow I’ll ferociously ******* some fashionably obscure, formidably pretentious prose [sic]. Consuming all but absorbing nothing…’

If he is to discover vicious truths [sic] in his writing, he cannot hold anything back. He thinks of a double-entendre using the word ‘blunt’, but decides not to employ it. Perhaps yesterday. Suddenly, M. begins to ruminate on his poem from the day before, which had earned him the opposite of acclaim from his peers. He must simply do the opposite of what he had done before! When he resumes writing, M. eventually begins to subconsciously fall back into the 12-syllable AABB rhyme scheme of his yesterday’s poem.

‘…Perhaps the following phase will stick for more than a wretched week.
Why have I wasted words on wan, vapid, wheezing lines
Of sickeningly phony, sophomoric, pseudo-sentimental ****?
Surely you see the salient theme,
That from which I hide,
Refusing to acknowledge life’s flaccid, tan **** as it floats in front of me,
Beckoning me forth,
A one-eyed, furiously fetid viper...’

M. chortles at his alliterative stanza’s ending. ‘This is how I write,’ he mutters to himself, maintaining a straight face. He writes without pause for nearly an hour. He is pleased.

‘…A generalist—that’s what I tell myself I am,
Because simply knowing a few facts,
Even for forty or fifty fields,
Is surely worthy of that
Respect which is given to those men and women
Who earn it by grinding away
At that which determine the sycophant vermin
Is worthy of lifting a lash…’

Hours pass. The poem approaches two thousand words in length. After taking a truncated cigarette break (the break, not the cigarette, was truncated), M. continues where he left off.*

‘…Believe you not for a second the frost-bitten-phallus,
That Freudian façade [sic],
The false faces I display to fake friends
Whose frequent fornication
Fills my mind with fossilized fleas,
******-spiritual formication [sic]
For which there’s no vaccine…

…Once I’ve come down from the mountainous apogee atop which I sit,
Calmly surveying the ever-receding landscape through the lens of fleeting euphoria
Which, fading faster always, gives way to—no, I will not say it—I refuse to legitimate her lies.
As I descend with increasing speed,
specters of judgment torment me into insanity…
    
B  r  e
a   t  h
     e  ;

...this feeling I simply cannot bear—
their sirens threaten to burst my eardrums.
Although it’s undoubtedly pathetic,
I can no longer lie to myself;
I desire the approval
of those specters
who haunt
m-
e
...’

M. begins to hyperventilate, panicking at his embarrassment at publishing such a bad poem the day before. He grasps his heart, which is beating out of his chest. The fear of cardiac arrest simply increases his anxiety. Laying down on the ****-carpeted floor, M. attempts to meditate, imagining this to be how it might feel to do TM on *******. Minutes then an hour pass.
Suddenly, a much-welcomed epiphany presents itself to M.; as if it fluttered through his window and hovered, eerily still in the way that only hummingbirds can be, just in front of his face. So obvious does it seem (the epiphany) that he begins to laugh maniacally in the pitch of a female voice either pre-pubescent or near-dead; a kind of

YEE!    

YEE!      

YEE!    

HEEEE!

HE!

HEE!                      

HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

sound.
After minutes of uncontrollable mirth, M. holds his abdomen and makes the lugubrious [sic], delirious noises of tired suffering. After a few more YEE’s and HEEEE’s escape, he begins to regain control, trying not to focus on what he’d realized w/r/t futility as it relates to shame, but certainly ensuring that he won’t forget. M. sits in his chair with a old-man grunt, the sort of noise over which wives divorce their husbands.
He sips water.
M. opens a new document and begins to type:

For what do we write, we talentless wretches?
To publish some
gooey garbage
in hopes
that some fleet of demonic tween-age sociopaths
adopts our work as part of the canon of cuntiness?  

Not we, the veritable “un-poets”,
Our haphazardly-conceived writing stinks,
No, it reeks of fetid, smegmatic phalluses;
Of a ****** of maniacal madmen,
Blue-balled after an abysmal night/morning
Tossing crumpled ***** of money
At Patti’s plump-lipped, positively putrid-looking

&&&&               *****               &&&&

In an I-95 truck stop;
“Taste **** and *****
At Trucker Tom’s ***** Taphouse
                                        Where friends meet
                                            and literally throw money
                                              into syphilitic snatches.”

We write for the duty of identity,
We who might be found with a serious face on,
Writing rhyming, rhythmic,
quasi-**** lines of lead-heavy, snobbish lifeforce-larcen.
The sort of **** that keeps you from getting up in the morning.

But of course we are writers, as sure as the sea
Is blue, the day is long, who daresay that I am wrong?
And he who
doth [sic] dare,
I point to that long
******* I posted
ere the day began.
There lies his evidence though it belongs in the can.

Today I wrote to you. I haven’t seen you in seven months and sixteen days, as of 10 AM this morning. Only two weeks left. It seems unreal… It also seems that to write to you is all I have. So this morning I sat at my desk, and I opened my mind to all the things I could have said to you, but never thought to.

Do you remember the first day we met? It was in the café on Franklin Blvd. You were wearing your grey Fedora, a Hurley shirt, and those burnt sienna penny loafers we’d make so much fun of later.

I was at the table by the window, and I couldn’t help but notice you. Three of your fingernails were painted yellow, and you wore a bunch of beaded hemp bracelets on your right wrist. They looked Bohemian to me, but one day you explained the difference in that and Jamaican. You were singing a little tune while waiting in line. Later, you’d call it your “little ditty,” and you’d sing it all the time. You always said things like that, & I always fell in love with you more.

You ordered a vanilla cappuccino and a plain English muffin. I looked down at the same half-eaten muffin and cold cappuccino in front of me. I wondered why it seemed that I knew you already.

You sat down at a table a few feet away from me. You took off your penny loafers and took a handheld game of Yahtzee out of your pocket to accompany your breakfast. I was perplexed that you hadn’t noticed me staring yet.

Ah, there it was. You looked over at me. You must have sensed me by then. Immediately you smiled that half-smile you would always do, a mix between a condescending smirk and a boyishly cute pride. It was altogether endearing. You raised your eyebrows and nodded, as if we’d known each other for years. I admired your charmingly playful introduction. I would soon call you sweet pea.

………………

It was eight months ago today that you told me you were leaving. Your large brown eyes were full of promise and sorrow. I dropped my half-full coffee mug, and it spilled all over the carpet. The cat ran to lick it up, and was disappointed when the taste was utterly bitter. In other circumstances, I would have laughed and pointed it out to you, and we’d admire the cat’s zealous naïveté.

However, the cat had but a split-second of my stolid attention before my eyes met yours again, and I felt paralyzed. I asked what you meant, and you repeated yourself.

You told me of Jacob and all he meant to you. I cried when you told me how God and all his goodness took a sixteen year-old boy and his giant heart away from this world, away from his brother. You also told me how you’d avoided him for over three years before his death.

I was in disbelief that you’d never told me of him. You just looked down and said you’d had no room in your selfish green world for his coal-black sickness. Then you told me of his letter before he passed, asking one thing from each person he cared about. To help the world in a way they never would have done before, to somehow leave a legacy in his name.

My stomach felt sick. My baked-apple oatmeal felt at the tip of my tongue. How could this be happening to you? I instantaneously let go of any would-be grudge against you for being kept from the cruelly and sickeningly beautiful reality attacking your heart.

For I could see in your eyes that you were tearing your soul to shreds. You explained how in your peaceful aura had been a mask, a denial of the sickness slowly claiming your brother, waiting it out. For he couldn’t die. He would simply be better one day, and you were waiting for that. But, he did die. And you already knew what your mission would be.

You were leaving in two weeks from that day. You were flying to Africa with the church your brother had been devoted to since the diagnosis four years before this day. You’d spend eight months with the church members in Africa, working with children in a third-world country. Anything you donated would be in the name of Jacob Meyers.

You had talked about this with your family, and they agreed it would please Jacob and the legacy he had asked for. I at once stated that I was going too. My belittled heart broke cleanly in two when you told me how you had to go alone, that Jacob wanted a noble mission.

He had explained that he wanted someone to do selfless work in his name. How in order to give truly, you must give all. I knew you felt that you had to give the largest part, for you’d been the most selfish to avoid him. I let you keep your dignity and, broken, I accepted what you were doing. If anything, I loved you so much more for it.

Sorrowfully and dutifully we packed bags to attend his funeral. I never told you this, but I read four novels on sibling death. I wanted to take your hand in mine and feel what you were going to feel when you saw him laying there.

………………

In two weeks I will see you again. I will travel to the airport and pick you up and time will move once again. I often wonder how spectacularly, or marginally, you will have changed.

I have your loafers, your fedora, and your faded Hurley shirt ready to wear to the café where we met when you come back.




To my faux Jamaican sweet pea,
I miss you.

No, I don't want to get a tattoo with you,
I may not have a mark on you, but I'm covered in you.
Our past has brought with it a dizzying myriad of hardships,
Some by my hand, some by yours,
The only difference is I've changed,
And you still lie.

No, I don't want to get a tattoo with you,
Why would I share something so meaningful,
When you keep so many secrets,
Omit my existence to others,
And lie to my face?

No, I don't want to get a tattoo with you,
Because the idea of looking at my body,
And having a permanent memory of our lives,
Is a sickeningly sweet lie I cannot face.

No, I don't want to get a tattoo with you,
It'd be fake, just like our relationship with one another,
A lie we should've gave up on sooner.

No. I don't want to get a tattoo with you.

take me down to a source
of flowing water
that moves constantly
without rest and yet complains
of nothing.
even frozen, you can see dull
faded silhouettes of fish and
plants writhing and trembling
under the surface.

take me somewhere with
earth that crumbles in my fingers
that holds the sickeningly attractive
stench of security and comfort.

i want you to bring me to a place
where sunlight filters and drips
down to our feet through countless
leaves that wave their jagged edges
'hello, hello' they say and our reply
is through our heads.

would you take me somewhere
i can wrap my arms around the
solid wood of a tree trunk and
know it will not recoil, but gently
caress me with arms tattooed with
foliage, and hold me close so i can
hear it's heart beat through my soul

I was sitting in the den of our apartment with my LSAT study book and a steaming cup of Moroccan mint tea by my side. I had left work - sometimes too many hours of serving rich, inconsiderate people got the best of me and my middle-school self kicked into gear, faking a cough, sneeze, or whatever it took to get me out of that hell-hole. Luckily for me it was Labor Day weekend, so I was stationed at home waiting for Sam to get out of class, our bags packed by the door for a surprise weekend at the lake in celebration.

So when I heard the front door creak open around one fifteen in the afternoon, I was no doubt confused. Sam always came home around four or five, sometimes six at the absolute latest. At first, I panicked – grabbed my tea and nearly broke the mug when I dropped it, threw my LSAT book across the room, and scrambled to spread the rose petals that I was saving until the last minute out of fear of them wilting- “I’m so glad, I’m so happy,” someone burst out laughing. Strangely, that someone didn’t sound like Sam.

I tiptoed down the hallway as quietly as possible until I reached our bedroom door. I didn’t know how I should feel- scared, surprised, suspicious, shocked, maybe all of the above. I lifted my hand toward the door and with a flick of my wrist, pushed the door open until I could see two figures under a single white sheet in our bed. Our bed.

---------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-------------

I paced the streets of San Francisco aimlessly, waiting for Sam to call me, text me, anything to pacify the emotions arising within me that I had suppressed for so long. I left the apartment without her even noticing I had been there, she was obviously too busy with the mystery man to realize. I walked into the first neon-sign-bar I saw and inhaled the musty smell of smoke and sweat, familiar but not familiar at the same time, my own personal forbidden fruit.

I sat down at an old wooden table that had leather stretched across the top of it, metal bolts lining the edges to hold it down. I nodded to the bartender for a drink, “anything,” I said. Anything to take my mind somewhere else.

Looking around the decrepit bar and the people within it, I was immediately transported back to my early 20s. The sprawl of Chicago, the low-key streetlights, the hustle and bustle of a city in its prime, the late nights (or were they early nights?) that began it all, the first girl, losing my grip on reality, pawing the ground for traction and finding it coated in metaphorical baby oil instead, and finally, the move.

The waiter set my drink down on the table, donning a grin that was lacking a few teeth – like a puzzle with missing pieces that you try to solve, becoming frustrated with your own inability until you realize that it isn’t your fault. But everything is your fault. “Stop,” the waiter turned around as the word slipped out of my mouth. “Uh, sorry,” I manage, picking up my drink (a Waldorf?) and saluting him.

He looks confused but forces a smile nonetheless and walks toward another customer, a young woman with crescent moons of mascara underneath her eyes.  She’s a portrait of lost innocence with her yesterday’s curls coming undone and trembling fingers grasping her drink as though it were life support. Sam. Sam was the kind of innocent you had to admire from afar out of fear of corrupting it, but I was always one for unconventional living.

I looked down at my drink and sighed - to drink or not to drink, the burning question to my seething desire.  “**** it,” I knew there was no turning back the minute I raised the glass to my lips. The liquid ran down my throat like a fire, destroying the three years of sobriety I had accumulated with a single match that ignited the thought to drink even more.

She pushed you to this point. “I know she did,” when I realized I was talking out loud, I lowered my voice, “I know.” Are you going to let her get away with it? “Stop,” I threatened, even though I knew it was pointless. The whiskey flooded my veins and fueled the fire, the voices, the thoughts. You loved her because of her innocence, you know that. I knew that.

Her innocence is what drove me to her, you didn't find just anyone with that fleeting virtue that escapes too many of us too soon – I envied it, even. I hadn't had that innocence since I was young. It was taken from me by force and I grew up believing that free will was nonexistent. But it isn't. You can do whatever you want, it's okay. No. It isn't okay. It wasn't okay, even when I tried to convince myself that it was.

I slammed my drink back, letting the ice cubes collide with my teeth as I kept the last gulp in my mouth, allowing it to burn my cheeks and bring tears to my eyes. You wouldn't have started drinking if you didn't want an excuse. “I don't need an excuse,” I said, too loudly again. The portrait of lost innocence glanced over at me, forcing a smile and offering me false comfort.

She's the type you love. I know, I know she is. Now Sam is just like her – just like all of them. I found myself grimacing into the reflection of myself in the bottom of the empty glass. I raised my hand, but the bartender was already on his way after he noticed I was dry.

“Another Waldorf, sir?” He looked at me with his sunken green eyes, expectant.

“No, I'll just take two shots of *****,” I responded, smiling, “nothing else.” He smiled back at me, uneasy.

More? So you really did miss me. I'm ignoring it, I'm not going to listen. Yes you are. No, I won't. I refuse. Just wait, you'll see.

The bartender came back with my shots, one in each hand. I took one after the other and set a twenty-dollar bill on the table, “keep the change,” I said as I got up to leave. The young woman eyed me as I was walking out and I flashed her a quick smile - that was always how you drew them in.

I decided to skip the bus and walk home instead, hoping that the rhythmic beat of my steps would help to clear my mind. It didn't. When I walked in, I still felt the whiskey and heard the voices. I'm here to stay.

---------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-------------------

“Saaaaaam?” I yelled, waiting for the click of her heels on the wooden floor.

“Hey babe, I'm in the bedroom.” Her voice was honey – sweet. Sickeningly sweet.

I walked toward the bedroom, “so how was your day?” I would be innocent for now. Come on, cut to the chase.

“It was good, I had a long day at work. I just want to relax. You didn't want to go out tonight, right?” She looked at me, her blue eyes glistening under the fluorescent light.

“No, I didn't. Actually, I wanted to ask you something,” I tried to sound as casual as possible. Yes, yes, come on.

“What is it, sweetie?” She moved toward me to reach for my hips. I flinched away. She knows.

“I- I know,” I stammered. “I know what you did earlier, with that guy,” I slurred my words together, partly from the alcohol and partly from the nauseating feeling in my mind. Yes.

“Oh,” that was all she had to say. Oh. A single syllable, the most effortless word in the English language – that was all I meant to her. Oh.

My blood set on fire and I released the floodgates, I didn't care anymore. “So who was he, hm?” I wasn't afraid anymore. You know what you have to do.

“Actually... it was Dominica,” I heard the words come out of her mouth but they didn't seem to match up. I must have heard her wrong.

“It was... a girl?” I tripped over my words out of disbelief. She must have accidentally said the wrong name, maybe she had been drinking, too.

“Yeah, you got a problem with that?” She had the audacity to ask me if I had a problem with her cheating on me. I had nothing left to say at this point, I was void of any feeling. Jacob, listen to me.

“Well give her my ******* regards,” I had reached my boiling point. She looked at me, her ocean eyes beginning to pool with salty tears. As she blinked, a torrent of them rolled down her cheek, leaving a faint line where the makeup came off – a scar, if you will. I think she half-expected me to apologize for the harshness of my voice, the way I always used to after I realized the effect of my tone on her fragile composure. I didn’t falter - this time, I had no remorse. Good.

“Jake, please,” was all she could manage to say. She pushed her jet black hair away from her face – strands had begun to stick to her cheeks from her tears. Even in her seemingly delicate state, she still held her nose to the sky, as if her dignity and precious reputation were resting on the tip of it – an invisible string connecting it to whatever ******* aristocracy she liked to think she was a part of.

Thinking of this and then back to the entire situation at hand, I couldn’t help but laugh. Hoarsely at first, but then louder and more pronounced – I was completely taken over with maniacal happiness. Scare her. Do it, Jacob.

Glancing up, I could see the look of bewilderment encased within her eyes. You're doing so well. She had been sitting a few feet away from me the entire time and upon seeing her fear, I leaned in until I was close enough to taste her cinnamon gum and whispered, “boo.” She jumped. I guess it did work like that, the way you’d see in the movies – push someone to the edge of their mental cliff and a simple syllable could force them off. Don't let her off the hook.

The rest of the act came easily.  I had performed my part too many times for it to go awry and had scared her too badly to even move, let alone run. You know the drill from here. I watched as bewilderment turned to fear and fear to desperation and I swear, if I could have taken a picture at the exact moment that her eyes begged for me not to, I would have. It was in that moment I realized it wasn’t me she wanted to run from, but herself, and that was exactly the way I wanted it to be. It makes the guilt easier, something I knew from experience. It's just a play, Jacob, that's all it is. Play your part. I did. I played it well.

It didn’t look like she would be speaking again anytime soon, so I repeated, “give her my ******* regards” and winked, a smile creeping across my lips as I walked away.

A couple feet from the door, I looked back at the lifeless figure laying under a single blood-stained sheet in our bed. *It was supposed to be our bed.

If tomorrow I shattered and fell, pieces skimming across dark secrets
Through the thick fog of my broken heart, the damp heat of desperate whispers
Would you gather my jagged edges, and hold me close until you bled?
Drown in that seductive ******, the digging of hard lines into flesh
The intoxicating raw agony like wildfire and the wetness of crimson liquid
It tears at old wounds, gnawing and ******* at bone
A mad beast too long caged, ravishing itself from within

Would you let me mark you with my teeth and tongue?
Rough and hard and lingering
A whimpering plea, breath ghosting over scars
Uncovering the smothering labyrinth of your release
Soothing away shadows of the cold and sharp blade

Would you help me swallow the suffocating lump in my treacherous throat?
Forget the dull fever of words left unsaid
Yearnings buried
Tears of blood left unshed
As the merciless flames tingled beneath weak fingers
Would you bear witness to the raging fire inside me
The warring instincts, the fierce longing to engulf and devour you
Destroy you as you destroyed me
As this toxic void between us became my most exquisite form of torture

Would you let me drown out the numbness?
Fill you with pain, and peace and rage
Slash at your adamant walls, the pillar of steel you’ve become
And banish the biting chill gusting from your icy core

If at dawn my own prison cracked
And the harsh porcelain surface screeched under quaking talons
If the watery depths of the gaping bowl enticed me deeper
And you could see the insatiable itch twitching in my wrist
If you saw nails plunging into my own gullet
Coaxing and tempting the gurgling lava to dry lips
Determined and sinful, like a lovers’ sigh

If you could hear the filthy slap of moist skin, sickeningly ****** in its lethality
And the frenzied spasms of a retching savage
That yields completely to the pounding rhythm
To the animalistic beat of the tribal drum and the eager cave below
If you saw the burning inferno of tears stream down  my cheeks
Would you trace soothing circles upon my back?
Would you lay awake at night, staring emptily at the swirling blackness
Drowning beneath regret and confusion
Skin a flaming wasteland of death
Like I did for you

If they could all see the wretched creatures that cling to me
The incubus that rocks me back and forth
Lulling me to that macabre slumber of death
And whispering sacred screams into lovesick years
My saviour and tormentor, lover and abuser
If they could hear those sickly voices, see earth through my marred eyes
If they could feel the anathema of our thoughts
The loathing and self-hatred
The disgust of one’s own skin
And the monsters closing in
Would they still laugh?

If mother could see the ink sprawled there
Across the overstretched canvas
Of fat stuffed thighs
Each word a puncture, a proud and gaping ****
Would she still dare to strike?

If they knew for themselves
Gluttony itself has a taste
Could feel the poisonous **** slither down throats
And the comforting familiarity of its dead weight
Would they dare meet the molten daggers of my eyes?

If the lifeless blinking light is no longer enough
When the hollow words on screens do nothing
If I grow tired of the scraps you toss me
And the ravenous hunger hatches
Would you join me in destruction?

When both our demons are unleashed
And the skies cry black tears of anguish
When the makeshift smiles finally fade
And we walk among them naked
When they pay for their assumptions
And mother Earth howls for her loss
When angels flee their impending judgement
And there is nothing left but dying embers
Will you sit atop a throne with me
And embrace the madness we once feared?

I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to feel the impact of your absence
To see that you were taken by a substance
I'm sorry I was never there
Not once to wash away your fears
Nor tuck you in at night
Take away the fright
But the death I found lying sweetly in your eyes
Dug craters in my skin cells
Soft and precious little dents

I had to clean the blood away
Couldn't stand to see you there
So I scrapped and scrubbed
Until the thought of you had passed
But in this role, I was sickeningly miscast
And nothing could have stopped you
Not a single plead nor shriek
You left as fast as you had come
Without a cry nor squeak
And I could swear I saw you in the mirror
Walking hand in hand with death
But you did not look behind you
Not even at your ****

I'm sorry I didn't make it to the funeral
And I'm sorry I barely cried
I'm sorry that I let your sister see you while you died
I'm sorry that I blame you for my suffering
And that I'm still recovering

But most importantly
I'm sorry that I didn't save you
I'm sorry that it was too late
And I'm sorry I couldn't save you from the pain that drove you to your fate
That I couldn't take away your misery
Couldn't take away the evil
That you had to look for happiness inside a little needle

I'll say these meaningless words
over and over and over again:
I love you
I love you
I love you

Even when I think of you as God;
I love you

Young blood, heated and dried
Dead head
You had crawled
Sickeningly sweet

I long for you
Funny duchess!
My Mary ---

Even though my tongue knows only clichés
and sometimes my tongue is too short
to speak human and the other times
my tongue is too long I think it
becomes python ---

I wish you were not dead;
Be here with me
You, omnipresent
I wish I could believe --

You wrote the bible with your own pretty hand --
Your ****** head (my sunrise)
Throbbing heart (still exists)
You have soul like universe
Objectified, scientified

How did you put it in?
And a nebula
Sickeningly sweet
I hope for no regret
Yet I am afraid

Of pureness -- your lethal-honest yellowness --
Spreads like **** pictures
Peanut butter on the bread in an easy morning

My, blonde thing!
Dark eyes, the nights
Spent crying
Why did you die, why did you die---

O why did you die?

Why did you die?

on beds of fragrant sights
through charms of sourest deeds
it rains away all spring
all when my heart bleeds

--------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------------------------------------

i­ know not who i'll be
or what i really am
an immemorial soul
in nimbler storms which swam

among the crowd of flowers
so sickeningly sweet
would lie the boldest aphids
upon the roses feed

my feathers trod on winds
challenge His modest grace
through marching fleet of life
in ****** shadows laid

with semblance of a calm
in grooves of wilderness
in arms of ecstasy
which life stands to confess

but how shall these two feet
embark a lonely trip
perhaps find love so still
as dew on roses' lip

------------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------------------------------

in faintest of moonlights
on dewy grasses seen
inscribed upon my palm
is meaning of my being.

I used to be wild
Drunk on my own newly discovered sensuality--and on Drink
Lemon Drops, and Pink *****-Droppers, and *** on the Beach,
and any fruity (sickeningly) mixed (sweet) drink anyone would hand me--but "no coconut!"
Laughing at my friends who were settling down
"You're all getting married, I'm just getting more awesome!"
Feeling so supremely alive
Flaunting my youth and vibrance like an obscure merit badge earned in Girl Scouts
(who would never condone by behavior, by the by)
Thin paper-plastic wristbands with Sharpie dates scrawled on them, and a tagline my only reminder of the night's events
"St. Patty's day"
"Brothers' last night"
"Makeout contest"... yeesh
Whole evenings, and weeks are now a blur, fuzzy from the alcohol? or just the passage of time?
Passing a particular apartment "I think I've been there before, once" and I struggle to remember how that night unfolded
A smile alights my face as some of it comes back, but not all of it; "Did that also happen that night, or was that another time...?"

And then a shift, in power, in gaze
Higher status, higher responsibilities
Higher shoes, (less *****)
The nipping and yapping one another, wearing down a trench around me
A Mother hen mantle settles on my shoulders (at least it's feathered)
And a jaded lens clouds my vision, sadly
My words about others, though never heard, would burn
Arrogant, downright Cruel, for a while
sigh
1am, that's enough for tonight
I'm tired
My bones hurt
I open tomorrow
The feathers are soft, yes, and choking
I look around, "What am I doing here?"
Ten percent of the people here make it worth my while
the rest...
Glitter cuts and scrapes my eyeballs, and I will wear the last vestiges to work tomorrow, no matter how hard I try
To rid myself of the testament to my night life

I want to do more
To Dance more, not police more
To allow more to explore more, and not to judge more
Everyone is worthwhile, and has something to offer
No longer compelled to define myself by the things that I do, or shove my newly-acquired identity in someone's face as means of introduction
To root out the real things that make me feel alive
And truth be told
I want to garden
laughs
I've never wanted to garden before
Wine and cheese with close friends, an adventure-date with my beloved
I'm alive because I'm living
Not because I've been going shot-for-shot for two hours with my best friend
But it's time for the next move
Whether you call it getting old, or settling down, or just "settling"
I call it settling in
To a cozy life I love, filled with only the people and things I love
Anything less, that's "settling"

I am currently in one of those moods where everyone who is happy and in love, or has any kind of adorable love-life I really would like to light on fire.

Dear beautiful couples, please get your sickeningly cute relationship out of my sight before I *****! Can't you see I'm busy being bitter and lonely and spiteful?!
Sincerely,
The girl in the corner with the chocolate and the ice cream crying bitterly and insanely yelling crazy (slightly terrifying) things at random happy couples passing by.

I am so jealous of some girls it is actually pathetic and I know that jealousy makes me a pretty bad and petty person, but I think it would actually make me a worse person if I weren't honest and denied being jealous of them. I think that jealousy is just a different kind of pain that you are not allowed to feel because society stifles it, and that is not fair. Anyone else agree with this? Idk, maybe I'm the only one. I just think that as long as you are not "getting revenge" or "acting on your jealousy" or whatever it is perfectly normal to feel jealous and it should not be seen as agony, not a negative feeling that makes you a bad person if you feel it.

There is this guy and even though I don't really like him anymore, he and I are still chatting a little and I see his ****** exgirlfriend every fcking day and I hate her. Anyway, I just feel like I can never be like her and I feel this sense of competition between us everytime I see her because the guy I was talking about dropped me for her when he thought he had a chance to get back together with her and I hate being the "Plan B" and I hate him and I hate her and I hate feeling this much hatred and I hate myself for not being as badass as her, as pretty as her, as cool as her, having an original taste in music that is more similar to his as her, I hate myself for caring this much, I hate myself for being so much less interesting than her, and I just really feel worthless and like I am nothing compared to her. Also she is popular. I apologize if this offends anyone but since I had bad experiences with the popular crowd a while back (a lot of stuff I guess some people might call bullying but I don't want to sound like I'm victimizing myself), I just loathe the entire "culture" and society of "popular" people everywhere. I recognize that is an extremely biased, discriminatory, offensive, narrow-minded and pathetic, generalizing point of view, I just have really scarring experiences with them and I don't even care anymore. Anyway, she is extremely well liked by everyone and she is dismissive of poetry and the art of writing which offends me and she is just really... physically beautiful. Do you have any idea what I would give to be pretty like that? I can't compete. I may as well give up. Sorry for the rant this was a lot longer than I actually realized while writing it, I just needed to get this out I'm sorry.

It is kind of getting worse and I am starting to wonder if maybe I should get tested for dysmorphia. Just to ease my mind about the matter... but I'm scared to find out. If it is a no, then I'm glad I don't have a mental disorder but that means I really am a hideous beast and I really need to get some kind of operation or something to fix my ugly face, then if it is a yes, I have a mental disorder and I really don't want to deal with a disease of the mind because it hurts a lot to hate yourself this much.

I have too much work to do and too little time I'm panicking there is no way I am going to be done.

I have no social life.

I want chocolate.

I need to stop trying to resolve things with chocolate.

I'm in one of those moods where I am sad. I don't know why, I just am. How is that even possible?

I am not good at dealing with loneliness.

There must be a way to feel like you are enough for yourself. I haven't found it yet.

I’ve a general practitioner, a psychiatrist and a psychologist
(who’s leaving but I’ll panic about that later)

I’m on 4 different psych meds

Adderall, XR 25mg P.O.
(So I can be motivated, focus and concentrate), Daily

Klonopin, 0.5mg P.O.
(For panic attacks, social anxiety, generalized anxiety), As needed

(Translation:Constantly)

Buspirone, 10mg P.O. (For depression and generalized anxiety),
3 times daily – Useless

Remeron, 15mg P.O. (For depression, anxiety and insomnia),
Daily, at night – Only helps you sleep

Even with all that, I can barely get out of bed in the morning,
coffee’s no help

I can’t really sleep much, waking times a night,
sleeping restlessly if at all

Going to class is a nerve wracking nightmare – as is going out –
but I do it anyways

A panic attack surrounded by people is better than
solitary madness and cabin fever

Like a slave, to a handful of bitter little pills just barely keeping you afloat, unable to hack it alone

While everyone else seemingly can push on through life without them

Falling behind, despite the stupid little pills

Watching as the world goes on around you, spinning sickeningly

While you wish desperately to be normal,
with a million colliding thoughts in your head

oh.have.the.heart.to.welcome.a.stranded.soul

1.
If you’re given the jolly gift of a green ribbon
Would you use it as a link to answers
Or to hang your pretty neck?

2.
If a tree has been yearning to the sky for more than sixty years
Would you now stub out your ciggie in its folds
Or embrace its giving energy?

3.
If such books have been written many millennia ago – saying a multitude
Would you shut your ears to debate and follow blindly
Or respectfully ask bold questions?

4.
If a man kneels repentant in the dust to wipe your shoes
Would you offer a hand up
Or trample on his fingers and spit on his bent head?

5.
If the insipid cashier annoys your sensibilities
Do you leave it unattended
And later sickeningly vent and shout at the wrong one at home?

6.
If a once-beautiful cat lies dead in the road
Would you let your rapid wheels contribute to its *messy mince
Or do the ***** job of humanely scooping away its remains?

7.
If a powerful dream comes mayhap to honour you
Would you ignore its seemingly-confusing message
Or follow its signals (in a maze)  to certain life-enhancing enrichment?

8.
If constant calamity touches your being on stretched resources
Would you keep popping those three sublinguals with alarming ease
Or try to surrender and accept the pain under arborescent canopies?

9.
If an old woman suffers a stroke in the heart of festivity
Would you refrain from visits while sending easy bouquets and fruit-baskets
Or take the time to help her struggling steps to the toilet?

10.
If the moon shines tonight on your wretched suffering
Would you hurl silent abuse and curse its half-light
Or glance up to catch perchance the echo of your deepest wishes in the air around ...?


you.can’t.honestly.say.that.it.matters.not
for.it.touches.you­.too



S T, 16 July 2013

the rose petal writings
of a young girl;
sickeningly sweet,
light as air,
only to wither and
die.

The faint smell of the watery sugar
is barely noticed. The starfruit's fragrance
swept away into faint nothingness
at the hands of the tropical winds of Hawaii.

Hanging onto the tree, the fruit once sour and bitter
undergoes a seemingly emotional transformation.
The sun's sweet-tempered fingers are secretly and appealingly molding it.
It learns to be sweet instead of sour,
our taste buds tingling with the power to taste,
but being held closely like bloodhounds on a leash.

It brings an exotic originality to the table.
The Vietnamese fable, blah-blah-bitty-blah its unknown.
It's skin kissed by golden rays,
and the once green fades
into a sweet banana yellow.

on the inside, it still knows its roots,
it still knows the sliminess of negativity,
and on the inside it holds tan pellets shaped just like tear drops,
embraced within its boogers of its old bitter soul.

Droplets of water drip-drop down
off the waxy fruit, and it lays silently on a freckled
black marble counter. Sweating sickeningly after a cold shower,
its cool glistening skin signals its execution.
Soon enough the executioner arrives,
the sharp shining blade blinding
with bright lines of reflected light.

No, it wasn't nearly as crisp and sugary as an apple,
nor was it even as sweet and citrusy as an orange,
and yet, it was a little bit of both.
The little stars stuck somewhere in-between,
alone in the galaxy of oranges and apples.

I'm a scapegoat, sacrificed
for all the slang and slander;
the sinister sinners scar me, sickeningly.

I'm bathing in this sombreness;
my appetite is spoiled by the solemn wind.
The future is sullied by those savages;
now my outlook is sullen.

I'm squirming, succumbing
to the suffocation.
My body and heart separate,
and tomorrow you can plan my sepulture.

There was suddenly sun spilling all over,
and suddenly hyacinths everywhere.
I have watched everything change so slowly
that nothing ever seemed to move at all,
and in my obstinate blindness, I didn't notice
that the ground had thawed, never mind that it had begun
to bleed spring.

I have never seen spring.
In all honesty, I have never lived
in any sort of weather –
only the starched, air-conditioned bedroom
in my parents' sickeningly stereotypical suburban concoction
of a house, where nothing –
not the dusty closed blinds or even
a blade of grass – ever moved at all.

Here, there are magnolia trees that move,
swaying in soft rhythm.
They have peeled themselves like vinyl stickers off
the backs of my windowpanes, and they really are
alive. I know because they wave to me
in flurries of dip-dyed pink petals –
like a good diaphragm-laugh,
or maybe like a good cry.

I have never laughed,
or cried.
But I cry at everything now –
now that I see it is all alive.
It must be what happens when you start living
alone – growing pains –
I imagine the hyacinths must get growing pains, too,
from exploding like purple fireworks
out of the frozen soil in
no time at all.

With her black eyeglass frames and sensible heels,
the psychiatrist is a contrived portrait of neutrality.
The timer on her desk ticks sickeningly,
counting off the missed opportunities for revelation
that pass with each minute.
I ask her if she has considered a Victorian fainting couch,
she does not smile.
I make cheap cracks about diet ads and the plight of the modern anorexic,
she scribbles something on a legal pad-
from where I sit, the only legible word is "questionable".
She is not describing herself,
yet I can think of nothing more dubious
than being paid to listen to another's tedium.
I spend one hour each week with my  hired companion,
and she, in turn,
spends her time relaying information
to another army entirely,
sending reports to the other doctors,
leaking statements to my family.
She is the informant, and I,
the gullible sap who believes in
"conditional confidentiality".
I pretend I know nothing of the arrangement,
and try to speed time by imagining alternate realities.
I picture her as a talking doll-
A string protrudes from her back;
when pulled, a mechanical voice says
"I see", or occasionally,
"How do you feel about that?"
I stifle a laugh,
and glance  over at her glazed expression-
there isn't much of a difference.

His long fingers clenched into their palms
His dark eyes were black with intent
Every elongated pause was an intricate harmony
gracefully accompanying the words
that tumbled from his cracked lips
He heightened himself and leaned in earnestly
Feverish want spilling into his rich voice
revealing the fear that had bloomed in his ribcage over the years
Fear that snaked up his throat and caught there
restricting his temperament
Fear that rose from knowledge of failure

Failure indeed lurked sickeningly
In the frosty air
In the purple autumn shadows
In the smell of hot cement
In the satiny pearl petals of the dogwood his mother had planted

He was a single smooth stone in an endless riverbed
Shaped by
the restlessness that flooded him
the desire that washed over him
the nostalgia that swept around him

Frantic to break out of the flow that was accepted by the crowds
Desperate for the peace that surpasses understanding

And in that moment
his finite experience and crooked path
meant less to her than the last of the cigarette she proceeded to flick into the breeze
Outweighed by her faith in the lighthearted boy trapped inside this troubled man's body

there are good souls in this world
shrouded in weathered skin
dry and cracked
with scowls hung upon their face
balancing on the scars of their brow
just as there are bad souls in this world
hiding under plush skin
their faces adorned with kind eyes and
cherry red lips made for kissing
or spitting with rage

picture a gorgeous brunette
with fair skin, bold eyebrows
and her hair in a subtle
yet nineteen-thirties style updo
wearing a red chiffon summer dress
the sun beats down on her
as she glistens with light perspiration
espresso in-hand cigarette in the other
her pale soft skin no match for
the thirty degree heat outside
of this café she nonchalantly finds herself
she is the epitome of carefree beauty

she kicked her lovers dog outside this morning
exiling him to a six hour long toilet break
after she "forgot" she had let him out
before leaving to go shopping
whilst her feller finished his shift
because the dog is old and smelly
and gets almost as much attention as her
she even saw his pensioner neighbour
struggling to take the bins out
as she walked to her car
and laughed rather than help
because she always
thought Mary was a no good Jew
she even called her Mrs. Goldstein
"Have a nice day Mrs. Goldstein."
but Mary's surname is Cohen

picture this beautiful girl a siren
leading good men astray
she can get any man she wants
and plucks only the finest
most succulent
I mean successful
and well put together men
from gardens of bachelors
maturing in the hardships of city life
she has plenty choice but she's fickle
you see, her man has to be almost perfect
for it to be as enjoyable as possible
to watch his life unravel and unfold
into everything he wanted it not to be

achievable only through toxic beauty
her joy is venom soaked insides
of lovers caught in a sultry web
of lies, ambition and ***
she loves a scandal
or a text sent to the wrong person
and she has everything to hide
but does nothing to do so
she gets by just fine
being beautiful and sickening  
and sickeningly beautiful
you know the sort
she is a bad, bad girl

there were a few (fairly) successful techniques i used

to erase you.

one day

she may leave,

so

let me share a few.



unfortunately,

the whole ordeal wasn't as easy as sending you to my recycle bin

or backspacing your name out of my chest.

i couldn't paint over the dark alleys in my heart that you had

graffitied with your naked body,

nor could i sell any of the useless crap you left inside me on ebay.

what idiot wants to buy someone else's used compliments or broken promises??

whatever,

online shopping is overrated anyways.



so,

back to heart break...

let's begin with the

obvious.

i deleted you on

facebook,

how could we be "friends"

when seeing your name

was like force-feeding myself

a fresh slice of pain?

i erased your number.

i refuse to be the pathetic drunk

who sexts at three am,

reminiscing on all the good times

i thought we had.

"babeee, rememb er thast one

timse, when we madske love

underf the stasrs..."

so not my style,

must always remain classy,

even when the tornado

seems to heading straight for

your heart,

and the flying **** never seems to stop.

yes, the world may be falling apart,

but you always have the power to

smile.

remember that after the storm,

everything will be rebuilt

stronger.



i burned all of the 1,000 letters you never wrote

and all of the "I love yous" i never read (but in my head)

until

the ash of yesterday

became flames that could

guide me into tomorrow

unscathed.

in less poetic terms,

i stopped thinking about every *******

sweet thing you had ever said to me

and started focusing on other people's

words, namely my own.

6 months later, I am able to

hear the sound of your voice

without cringing.

180 days of un-remembering you,

and i finally am free to be me,

the girl/woman who is sitting here

realizing that you are going to learn

from me learning from you.

it's a crazy, beautiful, weird, ****** up process,

right?

this circle of life...





and finally,

i forced myself to

see you.

similar to the

way in which a diabetic child

gazes longingly through the

window of the neighborhood bakery,

all transparency and overly indulgent imagination,

i looked through you enough times

to convince myself you were the perfect

creation,

sweet but not sickeningly so,

**** but not too sour,

a hint of spiciness to aliven the equation and

a little bitterness to sharpen the sensation.

only problem is,

i forgot i was the chef.

seeing you now through clean eyes,

testing your flavor with a mouth sobered by truth,

your taste is still sweet

but a little fake,

Splenda instead of brown sugar.

I detect the artificiality,

is that why she is leaving you?



no matter the cause,

no matter the outcome of this

most painful breakup,

know that one day, you will love again.

you will meet that one person who will

wake you up from the dream

you didn't realize you were living,

that one who will bring breath

to parts of your body you didn't

know existed.

on the blackest of nights, you will walk around

a corner on some random street

in the middle of no where,

and there she will

be,

standing under a street lamp,

smiling up at the midnight sun.

her body will beckon you,

invite you to dance,

and

you must accept the call.

even if you are  scared,

even if your heart is still broken,

even if you think you still belong to the one who

left you,

you must answer to love,

and in return life

will answer to you.

once you allow yourself to fall again,

the hurt will mend,

and your wings will spread,

wider and more ready than ever.



always remember,

you are the only one

holding yourself prisoner.

a swindler, sneaky yet gentle,
disguised as an island in the Mediterranean,
i think i may have left my heart there
in the pale limestone and the hissing
accents and the sun oozing into my skin

i wonder if there grows a garden of hearts,
from tourists wandering stumbling
onto late night buses on the coastlines
whose hearts have found a second home
under the limestone ribs

a botanical garden of our blood pumping organs,
what would it say on my description?
a gentle harvest, grown with 5 days
and mitski's pink in the night
and the waitress's soft smile
on the lantern lit streets of valletta

now i'm home, heartless, and yet
sickeningly longing for you,
a thief, a monster, to steal it again

flaming
lightening and thunder
storming
sickeningly twisting and turning
hailstorm, hurricane in my heart
in my gut
burning
cooling down with the rain, dripping
slowly calming the flames
tears and rain, rain and tears
smoke then steam
sulfur, metal, steam
red, sulfur, flames
fire
in my soul, in my mind
red-hot, heat
purple, black, blue
ache
rain and tears, tears and rain
slowly calming the flames
waves
crashing, then receding
crashing, receding
slowly receding, drifting
away
drifting away

Lust can be the cruelest thing
It tricks you
Mind ***** you

The weak lust can give you
That wild, filthy,
Animalistic ***
The kind where two bodies
Are so defiled
There is no turning back
And scars remain as evidence.

The strongest lust
The most dangerous,
Turns on you
It ravages you,
Engulfs you completely
And pushes you
Towards that dark corner

It takes your hands and arms
From shielding your face and
Forces your eyes open
It takes your bodies for the ride of their lives
The one they most feared

Now it engulfs you both
Wrapping around you
No longer forcing you
You willingly, sickeningly
Look into each other's minds
And that lust,
That cruel lust swirls around you

Changing into the other
Four lettered 'L' word
Filled with more sins
Than both your bodies
Could ever create together
And that one that will drown you
Into inevitable destruction.

Your bodies: ******
Your minds: ******
And now your hearts:
       Forever unfixable.

By the time he got out of the front door the morning sun had fully risen. Surrounding it lay a sea of blue sky, light coloured and peppered here and there with trails of white left from distant airplanes. The birds sang in the trees, all in harmony, and a light breeze whispered, left over from the night before.

As he jumped into his car, a dusty red little Citroën, he realised that in his rushed efforts to get ready he'd put his shoes on the wrong feet. A little while ago he'd seen a documentary based on people with abnormal deformities, and there had been an American 30-something year old with two right feet. Right now, looking at his shoes, he looked a little like him; all he needed now was a group of cameras and a well-spoken, polished presenter pretending to care but really just thinking about the paycheck at the end of night. He figured all TV presenters were pretentious, fixated on climbing up the great showbiz ladder rather than helping those in need.

He grabbed them off, scuffed black business shoes to match his tattered jeans and faded blue shirt, and swapped them over. Once both shoes were on correct, he lit up a smoke and set off down the road.

Ahead of him was Lancaster Road, a sprawling stretch of asphalt tarmac that served as the primary mode of navigation through Manchester. If you were to turn left it would take you all the way into the main city, and also a stodge of backed-up traffic, and, if you chose right, to the quiet town of Penitence which was where his works was based. Going right would technically be quicker, as the road to the left led to a series of zig zag-like curves where the road layout had been forced to compensate for the huge cliff several miles to the north. That being said, Will almost always chose left, as the dual carriageway that branched off Lancaster Road was always jammed up with traffic, comprising mainly of angry motorists and haulage lorries driving in from the east. Choosing right would easily add three quarters of an hour onto his journey, and quite frankly he'd rather stare at a wall than be surrounded by blaspheming mouths and ugly red faces.

This time however he went right, joining the steady stream of cars that were already beginning to slow down. There was no apparent reason for this, for over 4 years he must have consistently turned left every morning, but today his mind had thrown a curveball - albeit a stupid one. Already running late, it had chosen to go on the longest route possible.

Good work there mate, brilliant.


50mph - 45mph - 40mph

The speedometer slowly crept down, the shudder of the lower gears gradually increasing. Clouds had now gathered in the sky, not quite bloated nor dark enough to threaten rain but it was enough to dull the sunshine into a pale, white, glow. He was now going slow enough to see the bits of clutter and ******* - discarded newspapers, cans, broken bottles - littering the pavement. Then it suddenly gave way to a rudimentary dirt road and steel crash barriers as he approached the dual carriageway.

35mph - 30mph - 25mph

Sighing, he fumbled for the radio and flicked it on, momentarily averting his gaze from the road to the numbered buttons, tuning for a station.

--- Ssssshhhh ---

Nothing but static.

**** radio! If only I could -

When he glanced up his heart nearly stopped - directly ahead of him, on the highway, stood a man. He stood with his back toward Wills car, shoulders slumped, stock still.

What-?!

Will froze as the car lurched on, the distance between the bonnet and the mans body rapidly closing. No thought came into his brain, his legs distant from his body as if untethered.

Nothing but numbness.

The future series of events played like a stop motion video inside his mind; finding the brakes and jamming them down - only too little, too late. The old man would first lean as the bumper pressed into his lower back, then snap sickeningly in half, the momentum of the car causing his body to jackhammer up the bonnet and roll over the back of the car. There he would fall once again onto the road, spine splintered and blood soaking through his shirt into a puddle on the tarmac.

STOP! Will stop the **** car!!!

He smashed the brakes down and closed his eyes.

Although the first thing taught in driving lessons is to never close your eyes, particularly during an emergency stop, the overwhelming panic threw his nerves into a spasm, and in that split second everything he was told - brake hard, clutch down, don't let the car stall - was forgotten in an instant. He knew what he should do, knew that if the wheels were even slightly turned he could cause the car to skid, or worse, flip.

Brake down, clutch down, engine off, a mantra his instructor had once sang on one of his first lessons. Will had a feeling that if Ruth Carotene could see him, see this, now she'd have some sort of coronary, or maybe an aneurysm. She'd always been set in her ways of teaching, starting each lesson going through her seemingly endless list of checkpoints, and this right here smashed every single rule she'd taught him.
Break, clutch, engine off -
Eyes, open your eyes
He did, the windscreen before him doubling for a second. His heart was pounding away, nervous sweat lining his forehead and arms. The car had stopped, and in his dumb paralysis he hadn't the faintest idea how much it had skid. Safe to say it hadn't flipped over though, unless he was upside down and didn't realise it.
Nope, the sky is still above me, he observed, and it was then he also saw the fat bald-headed guy rapping his hands against the drivers side window. The world washed back slowly, the sun white and the air filled wit beeps and the Ssssshhhhhh static of the radio. He lowered the window, allowing the honking horns to fully enter and consume the inside of the car.
"What the hell are you playing at? I nearly ran into the back of you!" the bald guy barked at him, his pudgy face both pale and angry. Will glanced in the rear view mirror and saw about a dozen or so more cars behind him, scowling faces and gesturing hands sending out messages far from morning greetings or amicable hello's.
"Sorry... There was someone in the road," he croaked, pointing to the blank space in front. Empty, nothing there.
Can't be, he was right there! Stood right there! For a second he thought the figure had been an apparition, or maybe hadn't been there all along, merely a figment of his tired mind. That's when his gaze shifted to the opposite side of the road and the mis-shapen entity clambering over the crash barrier. Whoever it was, they had crossed the road while Will had been in his daze, and it was now he could fully see it in it's ghastly glory.
"I must be ****** blind 'cause to me there ain't nobody there -"
Grotesque was the only word he could think of to describe it. Under the pallid glow of the sun its skin glistened sick-white, partially covered by a tattered grey t-shirt that billowed in the wind like torn flags. It wore shorts, also grey, it's long stick-like legs poking out like splintered tooth picks. And it's face, oh God that face. He only caught a vague view as it glanced over its shoulder, but what he saw reminded him of the ghouls that would creep out of the crypts, the nightmarish beings that stalked late night TV shows such as the Twilight Zone seeking fresh flesh to feast on. But it was human alright - it's normal, albeit disintegrating, clothing the only sign of its former non-twisted self.
Oh God -
"Hey, are you even listening? There ain't no one there *******!"
Will faced the guy, now stood so close his flabby face nearly poked through the window, and then back to the crash barrier. The fiend was gone, much to his relief.
"Sorry it must have been a bird or something, I'm really really sorry mate I thought it was a man, or a kid."
"Yeah yeah whatever, just get going and get out of my way." With that he stormed off, only stopping briefly to exchange disapproving looks with the car behind him. He drove a black sports-like car, probably a Vauxhall, and Will briefly wondered how such a small car could carry an overweight ******* like that.
*******, he muttered to himself as he restarted the engine. Turns out he'd let the car stall as well.
Back to school I guess, what would dear old Ruth say?
Setting off was easy, the fat guy overtook him almost instantly, slamming his horn as he went, but looking over to where the misfit had been was not. He wanted to look, to check in case it hadn't really gone away and was instead lurking, contorting it's swollen lips into a grin.
Grinning at him.
"Gooood evening listeners, this is RADIO XFM!"
Halfway down the radio finally clicked on, interrupting his line of thought - quite mercifully, if he was being honest. The sight of that thing not only made him feel uneasy, but he also couldn't shake off the feeling of foreboding as well. Like it was some sort of warning, a sign.
Of what?
[smashing glass smashing]
He didn't know, didn't dare to think, and as he cantered down the carriageway in the steady stream of traffic he sat silently, the radio singing out its tunes like an uninvited guest. It was an oldie that was on, maybe Boston or Bowie, he wasn't sure, but as it played on he sat in silence, the shadows in the car cutting harsh lines into his face.

I want to run away.
I want to stop thinking.
I want affection,
however ephemeral
and sickeningly circumstantial
from people
who seek the same.
If only for tonight,
they’re my kindred souls,
so I’ll take one,
pretend it’s you,
give up myself to your reflection
and in the morning
curse at my conception,
come to.

Words glob like honey
Stuck to the roof of my mouth
Sickeningly unspoken

By the time he got out of the front door the morning sun had fully risen. Surrounding it lay a sea of blue sky, light coloured and peppered here and there with trails of white left from distant airplanes. The birds sang in the trees, all in harmony, and a light breeze whispered, left over from the night before.

As he jumped into his car, a dusty red little Citroën, he realised that in his rushed efforts to get ready he'd put his shoes on the wrong feet. A little while ago he'd seen a documentary based on people with abnormal deformities, and there had been an American 30-something year old with two right feet. Right now, looking at his shoes, he looked a little like him; all he needed now was a group of cameras and a well-spoken, polished presenter pretending to care but really just thinking about the paycheck at the end of night. He figured all TV presenters were pretentious, fixated on climbing up the great showbiz ladder rather than helping those in need.

He grabbed them off, scuffed black business shoes to match his tattered jeans and faded blue shirt, and swapped them over. Once both shoes were on correct, he lit up a smoke and set off down the road.

Ahead of him was Lancaster Road, a sprawling stretch of asphalt tarmac that served as the primary mode of navigation through Manchester. If you were to turn left it would take you all the way into the main city, and also a stodge of backed-up traffic, and, if you chose right, to the quiet town of Penitence which was where his works was based. Going right would technically be quicker, as the road to the left led to a series of zig zag-like curves where the road layout had been forced to compensate for the huge cliff several miles to the north. That being said, Will almost always chose left, as the dual carriageway that branched off Lancaster Road was always jammed up with traffic, comprising mainly of angry motorists and haulage lorries driving in from the east. Choosing right would easily add three quarters of an hour onto his journey, and quite frankly he'd rather stare at a wall than be surrounded by blaspheming mouths and ugly red faces.

This time however he went right, joining the steady stream of cars that were already beginning to slow down. There was no apparent reason for this, for over 4 years he must have consistently turned left every morning, but today his mind had thrown a curveball - albeit a stupid one. Already running late, it had chosen to go on the longest route possible.

Good work there mate, brilliant.


50mph - 45mph - 40mph

The speedometer slowly crept down, the shudder of the lower gears gradually increasing. Clouds had now gathered in the sky, not quite bloated nor dark enough to threaten rain but it was enough to dull the sunshine into a pale, white, glow. He was now going slow enough to see the bits of clutter and ******* - discarded newspapers, cans, broken bottles - littering the pavement. Then it suddenly gave way to a rudimentary dirt road and steel crash barriers as he approached the dual carriageway.

35mph - 30mph - 25mph

Sighing, he fumbled for the radio and flicked it on, momentarily averting his gaze from the road to the numbered buttons, tuning for a station.

--- Ssssshhhh ---

Nothing but static.

**** radio! If only I could -

When he glanced up his heart nearly stopped - directly ahead of him, on the highway, stood a man. He stood with his back toward Wills car, shoulders slumped, stock still.

What-?!

Will froze as the car lurched on, the distance between the bonnet and the mans body rapidly closing. No thought came into his brain, his legs distant from his body as if untethered.

Nothing but numbness.

The future series of events played like a stop motion video inside his mind; finding the brakes and jamming them down - only too little, too late. The old man would first lean as the bumper pressed into his lower back, then snap sickeningly in half, the momentum of the car causing his body to jackhammer up the bonnet and roll over the back of the car. There he would fall once again onto the road, spine splintered and blood soaking through his shirt into a puddle on the tarmac.

STOP! Will stop the **** car!!!

He smashed the brakes down and closed his eyes.

Although the first thing taught in driving lessons is to never close your eyes, particularly during an emergency stop, the overwhelming panic threw his nerves into a spasm, and in that split second everything he was told - brake hard, clutch down, don't let the car stall - was forgotten in an instant. He knew what he should do, knew that if the wheels were even slightly turned he could cause the car to skid, or worse, flip.

Brake down, clutch down, engine off, a mantra his instructor had once sang on one of his first lessons. Will had a feeling that if Ruth Carotene could see him, see this, now she'd have some sort of coronary, or maybe an aneurysm. She'd always been set in her ways of teaching, starting each lesson going through her seemingly endless list of checkpoints, and this right here smashed every single rule she'd taught him.
Break, clutch, engine off -
Eyes, open your eyes
He did, the windscreen before him doubling for a second. His heart was pounding away, nervous sweat lining his forehead and arms. The car had stopped, and in his dumb paralysis he hadn't the faintest idea how much it had skid. Safe to say it hadn't flipped over though, unless he was upside down and didn't realise it.
Nope, the sky is still above me, he observed, and it was then he also saw the fat bald-headed guy rapping his hands against the drivers side window. The world washed back slowly, the sun white and the air filled wit beeps and the Ssssshhhhhh static of the radio. He lowered the window, allowing the honking horns to fully enter and consume the inside of the car.
"What the hell are you playing at? I nearly ran into the back of you!" the bald guy barked at him, his pudgy face both pale and angry. Will glanced in the rear view mirror and saw about a dozen or so more cars behind him, scowling faces and gesturing hands sending out messages far from morning greetings or amicable hello's.
"Sorry... There was someone in the road," he croaked, pointing to the blank space in front. Empty, nothing there.
Can't be, he was right there! Stood right there! For a second he thought the figure had been an apparition, or maybe hadn't been there all along, merely a figment of his tired mind. That's when his gaze shifted to the opposite side of the road and the mis-shapen entity clambering over the crash barrier. Whoever it was, they had crossed the road while Will had been in his daze, and it was now he could fully see it in it's ghastly glory.
"I must be ****** blind 'cause to me there ain't nobody there -"
Grotesque was the only word he could think of to describe it. Under the pallid glow of the sun its skin glistened sick-white, partially covered by a tattered grey t-shirt that billowed in the wind like torn flags. It wore shorts, also grey, it's long stick-like legs poking out like splintered tooth picks. And it's face, oh God that face. He only caught a vague view as it glanced over its shoulder, but what he saw reminded him of the ghouls that would creep out of the crypts, the nightmarish beings that stalked late night TV shows such as the Twilight Zone seeking fresh flesh to feast on. But it was human alright - it's normal, albeit disintegrating, clothing the only sign of its former non-twisted self.
Oh God -
"Hey, are you even listening? There ain't no one there *******!"
Will faced the guy, now stood so close his flabby face nearly poked through the window, and then back to the crash barrier. The fiend was gone, much to his relief.
"Sorry it must have been a bird or something, I'm really really sorry mate I thought it was a man, or a kid."
"Yeah yeah whatever, just get going and get out of my way." With that he stormed off, only stopping briefly to exchange disapproving looks with the car behind him. He drove a black sports-like car, probably a Vauxhall, and Will briefly wondered how such a small car could carry an overweight ******* like that.
*******, he muttered to himself as he restarted the engine. Turns out he'd let the car stall as well.
Back to school I guess, what would dear old Ruth say?
Setting off was easy, the fat guy overtook him almost instantly, slamming his horn as he went, but looking over to where the misfit had been was not. He wanted to look, to check in case it hadn't really gone away and was instead lurking, contorting it's swollen lips into a grin.
Grinning at him.
"Gooood evening listeners, this is RADIO XFM!"
Halfway down the radio finally clicked on, interrupting his line of thought - quite mercifully, if he was being honest. The sight of that thing not only made him feel uneasy, but he also couldn't shake off the feeling of foreboding as well. Like it was some sort of warning, a sign.
Of what?
[smashing glass smashing]
He didn't know, didn't dare to think, and as he cantered down the carriageway in the steady stream of traffic he sat silently, the radio singing out its tunes like an uninvited guest. It was an oldie that was on, maybe Boston or Bowie, he wasn't sure, but as it played on he sat in silence, the shadows in the car cutting harsh lines into his face.

I want to slice open this blanket of illusion
that seems to coat
reality the way the night sky should,
because here it thrives:
pouring over the lit up city and it's cable lines,
in the iPhone 7's
and the moving wallpapers,
in the water (soda) that I drink everyday,

I feel it in the wasted seconds that tick on by,
the petty, whines
of shady drawn, stick figures
surrounding me, it feels like
sickeningly sweet, sticky fingers from having pried open
a can of sugar coated lies,

like a dollar bill floating upon
the wind,
my high pitched giggle is snatched by blaring car horns
swallowed by an adolescent's carelessness,
stomped on by the
cross guard transporting kids and air across the cracks
in the sidewalk,

I can feel it underneath my drooping eyelids,
how they
beg for truth (or sleep) in the middle of the night,
when I can't seem to get the **** math problem done,
in the slouching of my back on my
black, duct taped chair, for we all know
it is duct tape that holds you together these days,

I flail around with words and colors
flashing in my mind, showing on my skin,
I try to stick my earbuds in
and blast pretty worlds across the scenery,
but even then until the very end
the illusion doesn't go away...
and I still feet so empty and sweet,
kind of like bleach
being poured
into a cake batter,

and so on I dance and writhe through each day,
still feeding myself poison disguised as
comfort food,
still covering reality with
the blanket of illusion,

still complaining of my stomach ache,
and claiming that for some people,
nothing will ever be enough.

I see lovers
holding hands and giving each other the look that can only be described as
"the look"
because only those who are out of love are bitterly aware of the sickeningly admiring gaze that one partner gives to the other when they speak  
and only those who are in love are oblivious to the fact that they are giving the look

And I see friends,
friends in love with friendship
friends in love with being with each other
in love with the adventure and the memories
and the comfort and familiarity that comes with knowing each other like the back of your hand

I see individuals
completely, and utterly in love with themselves
the kind of arrogance that is almost admirable
in love with their passion,  their ambition
with their goals and their futures
in love with the potential they know they have and in love with the hope that maybe one day,
they'll be an All-Star
or a politician
or a beautiful poet
or a parent

I see all of these people who are in love and I wonder, are these people really as in love as they claim to be?

And if so, when is it my turn to be in love?