She would collect fireflies in mason jars that smelled of moonshine and take them to her room. She’d tape black construction paper in layers on her windows and pull down the shades to watch them glow and fade in an intricate rhythm of heart beats, of long forgotten conversation, of whispers and of secrets, dancing and pulsing together in an ancient SOS. And I’d watch as green eyes became molten emeralds in a warm yellow glow, and tell her if she didn't set them free, they’d slowly stop shining; one by one, the pulsing would slow, tiny legs would quiver and falter, before falling lifeless to the bottom. And she’d look at me, her honey hair in ringlets from the summer’s humidity, and she’d trace a painted fingernail down the edge of the glowing glass and merely whisper, “I know, but its better this way. They should have someone watching their beauty carefully to every detail, right until the end.”  

We’d sit outside on rainy days under the cover of my porch, and set me in her lap as she braided my hair and asked me if I believed in angels. She’d rest her chin on my shoulder and stare off in wonder, while I listened to the tinkling rain drops fall upon our teacups from the day before. She’d start murmuring how silly they are, looking down on us from above, gossiping like old women about the choices we make as their pure white feathers yellow with age, like dusty wedding dresses locked in old heavy chests in the attic. “Nothing is beautiful forever, and they’re ridiculous to look down on us, look,” she whispered against the skin of my neck “even they have to walk upon the ground when it rains.”

I sat in front of the redwood vanity, playing with the limited make up supplies I possessed, painting my lips with pink lip gloss as she painted my fingernails with the same color she used, and she asked me if I’d ever thought of kissing boys.  Her giggles floated through the air like wind chimes, soft and sparkling with the smallest breeze when my cheeks began to burn and fluster.  And those perfect peach wedges curled around ivory teeth and eventually found their place, full and soft against my forehead, and as those glittering irises met my own she said very softly, “Be careful when kissing boys, girls are soft and easily bruise, and boys like to play rough.” I asked her what she meant and she merely smiled and told me that one day she’d tell me, but for now she wanted me to lay in the sunlight with her and find the fairies in the dust motes.

And when summer heat turned to winter snow we found ourselves in a magical land made of delicate crystal. She held my hand in hers to keep it warm as we trudged through the snow, laughing and making our own lyrics to Christmas songs because none of it mattered anyway. She pulled me to the forest where we hid behind a holly bush, making miniature snow men and giving them names. I was so focused on making them perfect, that I was startled when red tipped fingers brushed my face and tucked my hair behind my ears. “You look cold, but you turn the prettiest shade of pink.” She smiled and I couldn't help but smile back, she placed a hand on my shoulder and pulled me into her coat that smelled of peppermint and warmth. We stood there for moments, watching snow spiral down from the sky above us, sprinkling our hair with glistening flakes. She asked me if I was cold, and before I could reply I felt her lips press against mine, still soft and warm despite the cold, and giggled when my face became inflamed. “No, I suppose you’re very warm.”

She rested her head on my shoulder as I combed my fingers through her hair, her teardrops warm and wet against my skin as she held me close. She babbled about her family and hiccup about the girls from school who called her names, she choked over how she missed me and whispered how pretty I was with another mason jar in her hands that smelled of apple pie. Her fingers found their way to my hand and drew pretty pictures that only I understood as she listened to the steady sound of my breathing.  She said she wished she could stay here forever in our world of lace and fairies and fireflies as she stared at the prettiest crystal I’d ever seen wrapped so delicately around her finger. And this time I pressed my lips to her forehead and smoothed her hair from her face and told her how this time we should let the fireflies go, because staying trapped in the jar only makes them die.  She sniffled and asked me what difference it made if they were all going to die anyway.  I pulled her left hand to my lips and kissed her finger, just below the vice grip that squeezed her heart, “Because at least they’ll die knowing they were free.”

He was nothing if not successful,
Grant Overman with his pen,
Everything that he seemed to write
Was well received back then,
The publishers fought for his stories,
And women swooned at his tales,
The only negative feeling then
Was coming from jealous males.

Was coming from jealous writers,
Who never quite got it right,
Their work returned from the publishers
To give it a ‘second sight.’
‘I don’t see how he can churn them out
So fast, with never a flaw,’
Said Ernest Benn to his leaky pen
While blotting his tale once more.

‘I think he’s in league with the devil,
He’s scribbled a pact in blood,
Or how could he twist my heartstrings so,
My tears come in a flood.’
His wife had sniffled through seven books
Of the hated Overman,
But never wailed at her husband’s tales,
He’d not yet published one.

‘I have to discover his secret,
There’s something we just don’t know,
If only you can get close to him
To see how his stories flow.
He needs a helper to clean his house,
Apply for the job, and then,
Rummage around what can be found
And watch him, using his pen.’

She used her charm at the interview
And was taken on to sweep,
To wash the dishes and scour the pans
To clean, three days a week,
While Grant would sit in his study there
And sit, bowed over his desk,
Then fall asleep in his padded chair
While he thought of tales burlesque.

Marie came back on the second day
And she said, ‘I think I know,
The thing he’s got and that you have not
That makes his stories flow.
He keeps it locked in a bureau drawer
Till he starts to write, and then,
It dances over the page, I swear,
He slept through chapter ten!’

‘You say the pen does the writing?
I see,’ said Ernest Benn,
His eyes aglow, ‘so at last we know,
He has a Magic Pen!
We need to get it away from him
So that I can find success,
The chances of getting caught are slim
If we do this with finesse.’

Marie left open the kitchen door
On an afternoon in June,
While Ernest, unobtrusively
Sneaked in, and hid in the gloom.
Though Grant was falling asleep, his hand
Had begun to race again,
So Ernest battered him from behind
While Marie took hold of the pen.

But Grant sat up, and he tried to rise,
He cried a hollow note,
Marie hung onto the pen, and then
She stabbed him in the throat,
And blood was suddenly everywhere
The desk, the floor, their shoes,
Said Ernest, ‘better get out of here
Before we make the News!’

After he’d washed and filled the pen
With a nice new brand of ink.
He held it over the paper, said
‘Do I even have to think?’
The pen began on its sudden scrawl
But was making quite a mess
By writing a line in blood, not ink,
‘I, Ernest Benn, confess!’

David Lewis Paget

To whom it may concern:

I’m sure you have a million questions running through your mind, much like I did before making this decision. I’m sure that deep down inside, you are hurting, just like I was. You may never forgive me for what I did, but just know, I held on for too long. This wasn’t a decision that I made on impact because I was having a bad day. It had me thinking for quite some time and I finally came up with what I thought was best. I was tired of waking up every morning and faking my smile. I was tired of waking up with swollen eyes from crying myself to sleep. I was tired of constantly washing my pillow case from all the mascara marks that had appeared from crying myself to sleep. I was tired of telling you that nothing was wrong and that it wasn’t your fault. All that had been a lie. Everything was wrong. And it was your entire fault.

Sincerely, I’m sure you know by now.*

Imagine waking up and finding that note lying on the soft white sheets next to you. Imagine the thoughts that ran through my mind. Imagine seeing the blade covered in blood on the nightstand that belonged to your girlfriend. Imagine my heart start racing.

I looked around the room. All was quiet like any other normal Sunday morning. But instead of waking up next to Sutton, I woke up to the note that had replaced her.

Sutton had a history of depression and had cheated death only twice as far as I knew, so upon finding the note, I almost had a heart attack. She’d been released from the psychiatric hospital about a month ago. The doctors thought she was better, everyone thought she was better. Whenever I went to visit her after work, she’d seemed happy to see me. I noticed her face light up several times. I’d hold her hand, just to make sure she hadn’t cut herself again since the last time I’d been there. And as far as I could tell and see, she’d been clean. So a month later, when I got the call that I could go pick her up, I was more than thrilled.

After picking her up, we had gone out to lunch, and spent the day together. We walked around the lake, holding hands, talking about what each other had missed. I fell even more in love with her, as if I didn’t think it was possible. She was back to the girl who I’d fallen in love with my senior year of high school. Happy, smiling, enjoying herself, just the way I liked her.

I threw the covers off of me.

“Sutton.” I whispered at first. Then, realizing she wouldn’t hear me, I said it louder. “Sutton.”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and got up. I went to the bathroom where the door was closed and pressed my ear against it. It was silent and I didn’t think she was in there. I tried the ****, but it was locked, proving my previous assumption had been wrong.

“Sutton.” I said into the door. “Sutton, are you okay?”

There was no answer and my heart started pounding even louder.

“Sutton.”

I went back over to the nightstand by our bed and opened my wallet, retrieving a credit card from one of the many slots. My dad had shown me this trick when I had been just a little boy. Taking the card back over to the door, I slid it through the lock on the door and heard the latch move, allowing me to twist the **** and open the door. Sutton was sitting on the side of the edge of the bathtub with her head in her hands.

“Sutton.” I whispered, opening the door wider.

She continued to remain silent.

I went and knelt in front of her. Trying to look up into her eyes, but they were closed. I reached forward to take her hands in mine and she pulled them closer to her.

“Sutton, don’t push me away.” I whispered. “What’s wrong?”

She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head the slightest bit.

“I can’t help, if you don’t talk to me.” I whispered.

She sniffled a couple times, and wiped some fresh tears away from her eyes. I took my hands slowly towards her again, and when she didn’t pull away, I softly grabbed them and held them in mine. I squeezed a little tighter and pulled her gently into my lap, wrapping my arms around her.

“Talk to me.” I whispered before I placed my lips on her forehead. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s hard to say what’s wrong when nothing is right.” She whispered.

I squeezed her tighter and started rocking her back and forth. After a couple minutes, I pulled her arm away from my chest and examined her wrist, where I discovered fresh blood from cuts that would soon turn to scars. I tilted her chin up, making her look at me. Her eyes started watering from tears that would soon begin to pour. I wrapped my arms tight around her and pulled her close to me, as I heard her begin sobbing. Rocking her back and forth, I rubbed her back.

“I need help.” She whispered into my chest.

“Shh. I know. It’s okay.”

Strangers in every day clothes continued walking back and forth in front of me, as I sat in the most uncomfortable chair there could possibly be, with my head bent in my hands like Sutton had been that day. Holding back tears turned out to be harder than what I thought. We had stood at the front desk, preparing to check her in, when she had suddenly had a change of heart.

“This is a mistake.” She said.

I looked at her, “What do you mean?”

“I don’t need this.”

“Sutton, you wanted this.” I said, “it was your idea. Remember?”

“But, I don’t want it anymore.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I just don’t.”

“Well, that’s not a good enough reason.” I explained.

“Please, don’t make me stay here.” She pleaded some more.

“I’m sorry, Sutton.” I said.

“If you love me, you won’t make me stay.”

“No, if I love you, I’ll do just that.” I explained. “You’re not healthy. You need this. It’s not permanent. You won’t be here forever. Just until you get better.”

“So you’re saying there’s something wrong with me?”

Playing the guilt trip had always been something she was good at. She had me wrapped around her skinny little fingers because I was so head over heels in love with her, but there was no way she was getting out of this one.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“No denial.”

“Sutton. Stop. I love you.” I said. “I’m doing this because I love you.”

“No, you’re doing this because I’m broken.”

“Daddy” she asked “Why must you leave?”
as she cried and her chest started to heave.
“I’m so sorry, my Baby.” Daddy said,
his heart started feeling heavy as lead.
“Mommy and me just can’t stay together.
Our happily ever after is no longer forever,
but I’ll still see you, don’t you worry.
Please just know I’m so, so sorry.”
“Please stay! Don’t go!” She kept pleading
as her chest grew tight with her breathing.
“Did Jimmy or me do something wrong?”
“No, Punkin, no! Please try to be strong.
I promise I’ll come get you on weekends.
Up to Grammy’s we’ll go, this isn’t the end.”
Then to her Daddy she quietly said
“How will you tuck me and Jimmy in bed?
And hug us tight and kiss us goodnight
and make the Boogieman shake with fright?”
“It’s okay, Honey. Mommy will be here.
You and Jimmy have nothing to fear.”
“But Daddy, how will I be your Princess now?
Answer me please. How Daddy? How?”
“Please, Baby, please! Try to understand
I’ll always be here to hold your hand.
It’s not like I’m leaving forever, you see.
I promise you’ll grow to like how it will be.”
“Never, Daddy, never!” she said with a cry.
“I never, ever want to say good-bye.”
“Honey, I’m sorry. I really have to leave.
Please, Baby, please! Let go of my sleeve.
You and Jimmy will see me in only six days.
If you count on your fingers, that not far away.
I love you, my Princess. Please don’t forget,
it will get easier. I’ll make you this bet:
that after a while the pain won’t be bad.
That you won’t cry so much or be so sad”
She sniffled and shook and gave him a hug.
“I really don’t think so” she said with a shrug.
“I’ll miss you, my Daddy. Please know this is true.
I love you, my Daddy. I’ll try not to be blue.”
“That’s my girl” he quietly said
as he quickly had to turn his head;
for tears were falling from his eyes
as Daddy and daughter said Good-bye.

He noticed the little things
Like how she would cry and grip the steering wheel
Pull over,
And pinch the inside of her palm
As if trying to reignite the fire that her tears put out
How she held on to her skin so tight
That the tips of her fingernails changed from rosy pink
To a suffocating and painful ivory
How she would cry and cry
And how she would wait until her palms bled
And how she sniffled one last time,
Wiped her palms on her pants
How every time she did this, she drove home silently
She noticed how he could not say a word
How he must be utterly repulsed by her
By how turned around she gets
He must not be able to react to her abnormal ways
Of dealing with copious amount of stress and anxiety
She noticed the little things
Like how he wouldn't know how to take care of her
How she was trapped
How she couldn't pinch herself out of this world
How she didn't want to die,
But simply cease to exist
How she knew she couldn't ask him to help her
"Can you pinch me out of this world?"
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"You're the only person I have that brings me back
When I sometimes pinch myself too hard."
They also failed to notice the larger things
Like how he held her in his lap
And let her pinch to make her stop crying
How she brushed his hair back when he couldn't stop
How they kept a box of tissues in the car for moments like this
When the other would need to pinch for a while
To make the crying stop
To deal with this abnormal way of coping with things
To make the other remember
That it might not be so bad to have someone to help you
Get out of a pinch, after all.

I

We are all soldiers.

But don't expect political rallies.
"The streets are ours!"
Some other clichéd call to arms.

Not from me.

II

My battles are taking place in unsaid words.
In silent, sniffled phone calls.
War is inevitable, "It had to happen someday"
"No, it ******* didn't!"
Protests a long haired boy.

III

You don't have to have an enemy to be a prisoner of war.
My own silence has us chained together,
And our cold handcuffs have left my wrists sore.

It's clear to me, that as we are
Both of us are doomed to starve.
I try to cover your eyes and ease the shock,
But the time will come for mercy killing
And I will always be the villain.

I’m so exhausted and burned right to the fingertip,
blistering, painfully, every time we dare to touch.
You’ve worn me down, dragged me through
your loops of excuses and confessions and please,
try to understand, I never meant to hurt—
Yeah. I know. I said it’s alright.
But it was never alright to show up drunk
on a dinner date while I spent hours
on my make-up and you forgot to brush your teeth.
I’m so tired, baby. Have you ever had to look at yourself
in the public bathroom mirror, choking
on every tear and all the things you know
you should say, but don’t because you just want to be loved
at the end of everyday? Have you ever spit your emotions,
literally, into the sink, watching them swirl down the drain?
And have you ever had to tell yourself that you deserve this?
That this park bench is a coffin and you’ve killed yourself again.
That maybe, this actually is alright, because there’s things like
second chances, karma, wishing stars, and a bright side.
I’ve been here, not exactly, but in different ways that still felt
like I couldn’t breath right if you were here but I would die
if you were to leave. So I pulled my sweater sleeves over my hands,
sniffled while you weren’t listening, and laughed when you tickled
my ribs. Because this isn’t so bad. It could be worse. It’s alright.
I think I’ll have an iced tea.

You glided through life, laden with love
You pushed and squeezed, and huffed and wheezed
I was born into this world, a gift from above
Let out a small yelp, sniffled and sneezed

You loved and you cared
Through good times and bad
You put all matters aside, your soul proudly bared
I would never want to make you sad

I grew up to be tall and strong and you always cared
Before that when I was still young
What I did and said, you must’ve been scared
I hope I turned out all right, now you can finally have fun

It’s my turn to look after you
You’ve done it for so long
I’m grateful for that and a life always new
A life transposed into a beautiful song

Thank you for all the opportunities you’ve thought and given
It’s changed a lot and made me be...
Without you I would be nothing and id have never forgiven
You are in my heart and soul, the very essence of me

All my successes and failures were each life lessons learned
But softened and sweetened by my lovely mom
You taught me to let go, force bad memories to be burned
Each day started anew,
All these taught by none other than you...

Thank you for your time in raising a son
Life would’ve been so different without you
You’re so special to me, without you I wouldn’t be
Thank you for being the most wonderful mom...

He met me at the Pacific Ocean that night.

      I was trying to keep a candle lit against the wind, cupping my hand around it. As it sputtered and bent, I thought about December. About snow piling up on the driveway, banks folding over themselves in the fields. The river would be frozen over. The pipes would freeze, rickety houses huddled against the cold. I shivered, moving my hand closer to the wick, bowed over it like I kept the holy flame itself. I regretted not bringing a coat, knowing the spray and chill would numb me as ever. As it did when I’d take myself out into the black, walking into the ocean dark as an abyss. Waiting for its tide to swallow me and floating, sometimes in jeans, sometimes in a dress, seldom in bathing attire. Throwing aside the weight of the world, and I miss those endless moments spent wading out alone. The candle almost went out, and my heart remembered to forget a beat.

     I couldn’t hear him as he walked. The sand muffled his bare feet. Weathered, calloused feet, tired from stress and work. Not like his hands. Despite the heavy lifting, despite below freezing temperatures, despite nicks and scrapes and a rough life, his hands were always soft. Gentle as he’d pet the coat of his dog. Careful as he’d hold a bottle of wine, or hold me. As perfect as the silt constantly smoothed by the salty sea, which ebbed and swept in my ears.

     When he was close enough, he stood before me, blocking out the moon. I never looked up. Eyes dancing in the fire, daring myself to cry and **** it early. I felt the warmth off him like a hot spring pool at Yellowstone. The overwhelming sense of safety, of relief, overridden by fear.

     The light had to go out. I told him, that by all accounts, he was late. Ever late. 9, we’d said. I wished he would say sorry. I wished he’d take my hands and put his forehead to mine. Oh, but he wouldn’t say or do anything. Perhaps he was sad, in those last moments. While I thought about summer, careless laughter and harmless dares and then, then I did let the tears flow. Maybe if I’d looked at his face, maybe then I would have seen in his eyes. The reason. Always the reason.

     I was trying to turn into a shadow against the moonlight, pulling my knees to my chest. As he took the candle from me. As he blew it out, I thought, but I never looked. I could hear his footsteps, then, plodding away from me. Loud in my head, quiet acceptance in my heart. As I sniffled and coughed, I thought about spring. I took my thoughts away, somewhere new. Where flowers were starting to bud, where a newborn bird hopped around my feet. I thought about wine, and plane tickets, and Christmases that would never come. About lights, and time, and faulty wiring.

          It would never have survived.

She sipped her salt water and
wore glasses rimmed in a bloodred hue.
Behind them, watery blue eyes glistened.
Not sparkled,
Mind you.
She sniffled into her hand:
"I've got this dreadful cold!"
Makeup smeared and creased in wrinkles that had nothing to do with getting old.
She lifted her lips to reveal her teeth once in a while.
But not once, I tell you,
Not once,
Did she smile.

A slithering snake;
Afraid in the grass.
On his belly he wriggles;
But can't take a step back.
The rodent has sniffled
Where doeth he belong?
Suddenly swooping ;
An awe-inspiring Owl from heaven swoops down;
          to Save.
But the prey is afraid.
There's no grey;



in lifes laid. Be very afraid. Be very... afraid.

Tonight,
I saw a black creature,
Move through the fields,
It's long black hair,
Like strands of fire whipping in the air,
No eyes, no mouth to be seen,
Oh it's just you old friend,
Lucifer beamed,
He sat on the edge of the old burnt tree,
Dead but no one had the heart to cut it down,
His voice tumbled out without a shout but it echoed," today's your day, are you gonna see the pearly gates"
I sniffled a laugh, "you use to call that place home"
He slyly replied, "see we are the same",
As his blackened slender finger stabbed in the direction of my house,
"Choose my darling angel" he belowed his glee noticeable,
The weight in my heart dropped to my hand,
Taurus Judge Revolver looked back at me,
I looked up but he was gone,
The wind picked up,
Singing a sad song,
"**** yourself, **** Yourself, be free"
I lifted the gun to my gaze,
I could feel the cold barrel against my cold ear,
I screamed," Make it stop"
Boom,
All was still,
She was finally as they say,
Free spirited

"IS IT YER SELF THAT'S IN IT?"
( For good auld Bud )

'Howya? '
said the stone

(in a thick Irish accent)  

'How's it goin'? '
said another stone
to the left of the other one.

'So, you decided to
come home? '
sneered a passing breeze.

'Ah...leave him be! '
shushed a familiar tree

& an auld sod agreed:
'Let bygones be bygones! '

There I was
thinking in French

& gesticulating
in Italian.

'Are ya...sure...
...it's himself? '

enquired a changing cloud.

'Sure...I'd know him
anywhere! '
spoke up the road
that led in(& out)  of here.

'Ah, Jaysus...
...he's cryin''

sniffled an old
gone-to-seed house

& then, it started
crying itself.

This place grew me! '
sobbed my tears

& now
(somehow)  

either it or I
had changed.

Only the ghosts of ghosts
remained.

She explained it to me, told me all that she could about it and how she hated it.
Tears were in her eyes as she explained the pain she felt from the heartbreaking.
Her nose nearly ran and she sniffled as she cried in my arms, nuzzled under my chin, her shaking form nearly as cold as ice.
Her heart was once her own, her love was once brought only to the those who she deemed worthy, but that one person, that one human, made her empirical mind crash to the ground, ****** on by the rains of gloating hypocrisy. She is a shell and a mind of active saddened anger.
But she always forgets
that I know it better than she does

They lowered him down into his earthy hole where dirt once lay
Cold and sunken eyes, closed within the wooden frame
With puffy clouds the sun continued to race across the dark set sky
As the  mass of black suited girls and boys sniffled good byes
Some prayed
Some cried
Yet I only stood and stared
At the man reduced to his fragile box of rectangular shape
Who once thought and loved like I
Some hugged
Some needed a shoulder for help, for comfort
And the box slowly fell with the most gentle sway
More clouds came in as final words were said
And just as the last tears were shed
The first drops of rain did fall
As if the world was crying
What a sad day for rain

"IS IT YER SELF THAT'S IN IT?"
( For good auld Bud )

'Howya? '
said the stone

(in a thick Irish accent)

'How's it goin'? '
said another stone
to the left of the other one.

'So, you decided to
come home? '
sneered a passing breeze.

'Ah...leave him be! '
shushed a familiar tree

& an auld sod agreed:
'Let bygones be bygones! '

There I was
thinking in French

& gesticulating
in Italian.

'Are ya...sure...
...it's himself? '

enquired a changing cloud.

'Sure...I'd know him anywhere! '
spoke up the road
that led in(& out) of here.

'Ah, Jaysus...
...he's cryin''

sniffled an old
gone-to-seed house

& then, it started
crying itself.

This place grew me! '
sobbed my tears

& now
(somehow)

either it or I
had changed.

Only the ghosts of ghosts
remained.

The evening cast a warm glow peeking through the curtains.
Dionne Warwick’s “Make It Easy On Yourself”
Hissed and popped as the needle danced across the record.
Its sorrowful tune echoed the room, looping
The words easy on yourself
As life stood still
And time grew short.
With a trashbin stuffed with crumpled up letters,
A phone shoved in the side pouch
Of a bookbag buzzed. It eventually
Stopped,
And the music grew louder
And louder.

There she laid---
Her arms and legs sprawled out
While her body slowly sunk, being one with the bed
Finally.

Her lips quivered,
Unraveling an ocean of warm tears. The room
Seemed blurred out, but her eyes
Still captured posters, the ceiling fan,
The fairy lights.
Her cotton candy hair rustled against her cheeks---
Sticking to her as the tears continued to fall.
Then, the phone
Buzzes again, this time longer
As it competed with the song.

Cut up pictures of
Missing,
Burnt out, faded faces
Decorated the floor, and the girl
Softly wept, sniffled, and let out a sigh.
She couldn’t stop weeping.
As life stood still,
And time grew short,
She knew she had to make it easier on herself.

"IS IT YER SELF THAT'S IN IT?"
( For good auld Bud )

'Howya? '
said the stone

(in a thick Irish accent)

'How's it goin'? '
said another stone
to the left of the other one.

'So, you decided to
come home? '
sneered a passing breeze.

'Ah...leave him be! '
shushed a familiar tree

& an auld sod agreed:
'Let bygones be bygones! '

There I was
thinking in French

& gesticulating
in Italian.

'Are ya...sure...
...it's himself? '

enquired a changing cloud.

'Sure...I'd know him anywhere! '
spoke up the road
that led in(& out) of here.

'Ah, Jaysus...
...he's cryin''

sniffled an old
gone-to-seed house

& then, it started
crying itself.

"This place grew me! '
sobbed my tears

& now
(somehow)

either it or I
had changed.

Only the ghosts of ghosts
remained.

*

Going back to Ireland is often referred to as going 'back to the auld sod' and so it is that I have the landscape of my childhood question me as I remain silent in the face of fixed places such as houses melt into literally thin air and I walk through what is there but isn't there anymore. I am my own living ghost.

The Irish greeting of 'Is it yourself that's in it? ' always amused me as if the greeter was making sure that your corporeal shape hadn't indeed been taken over by the Devil and that you were now a man possessed! If the answer was 'Sure...aren't ya seeing me with your own two eyes ya ejeet or is it blind ya are or what! ' then that indeed was you. If a deep dark voice that smelt of sulphur boomed 'I am the Lord of the Underworld earthling and you will rot in Hell if you don't buy me a pint! ' then it was more likely the Devil himself or somebody with a wicked sense of of humour. Anyway and anyhow the Devil you know was always better than the Devil ya didn't know. Better to err on the side of caution rather than be having a hell of a time in the place down below.

I see you over there
And I hate it.
Everything you breathe truth to.
The way I was never good enough
For time or you.
I asked you why you didn't accept.
You just sniffled
And looked away.
Congratulations on the brother ****"ng **** addict.
But I'm not some
Simple wrist limp ******.
You're a caveman
And
I
*******
Hate
You.

I woke up still feeling sad.
I had the urge to cry but wouldn’t let myself do it around him.
I felt like we are still too new to allow myself to have one of those days where I wake up in tears.
Finally after attempting to hold it in, I went and laid down in bed, pulled the covers over my head and quietly cried.
He came in and laid on top of me and said,
“Babe, why are you so sad.”
I didn’t respond, I just sniffled.
He stayed until I took my head out and said,
I feel better now.
And then we got up and went to the Gym because it’s okay to have bad days, but you have to pick yourself back up and keep trying.

My brain is so tricky
sometimes I feel like I don’t know her.
I was fine all day just resting after an all nighter,
until my boyfriend came home from work and wanted to lay down in bed.
I squeezed in beside him and suddenly couldn’t stop the tears that were soaking my pillow.
I sniffled quietly, not wanting him to know that I was randomly overcome with sadness,
and asked if he’d put his arm around me.
It wasn’t him or anyone or anything,
it’s just how depression is sometimes.

Amongst the sneezing
the aches
and the hacking “yum”
we cried in laughter
and embraced the glory  
of that ******* sock
and snotty showers
and even as
I sniffled into that dq ice cream
with his nose nuzzled at my knee
I couldn’t help but be content
at your unkempt
unbelievably ****
layered white tee and
frying pan abilities

DO I KISS HER NOW. . .?
. . .DO I KISS HER NOW!

Centuries of seconds
amble( nonchalantly )by

the kiss that is
in our minds

not yet
upon our lips.

"Just...doitdoitdoit!"
you scream silently.

"Doitdoitdoit!"
I cry wordlessly.

The birds in the trees
can only laugh.

"Doitdoitdoit!"
they mimic

Suddenly the last second
hoves into view

carrying a placard
'THE KISS IS NIGH!"

I grab that second
by the scruff of the neck.

"What...in God's name
kept you"
I almost screech.

"Painting the sign...wasn't I?"
the second sniffled...wiping its nose.

"AGHHHHHH!" I aghhhhhh'd.

"AHHHHHHH!" you ahhhhh'd.

Squirming deliciously
within your self.

"Okok...cut...that's it
that's a wrap!"

shouts Life
from its Director's chair.

At long last
the kiss

exists.

"I said...cut!"
shouts Life again

but we continue
doing what we're doing

not listening
to anything

but us.

IS IT YOURSELF THAT'S IN IT?
(for good auld Bud)

'Howya? '
said the stone

(in a thick Irish accent)

'How's it goin'? '

said another stone
to the left of the other one.

'So, you decided to
come home? '

sneered a passing breeze.

'Ah...leave him be! '
shushed a familiar tree

& an auld sod agreed:
'Let bygones be bygones! '

There I was
thinking in French

& gesticulating
in Italian.

'Are ya...sure...
...it's himself? '

enquired a changing cloud.

'Sure...I'd know him
anywhere!
'
spoke up the road
that led in(& out) of here.

'Ah, Jaysus...
...he's cryin''

sniffled an old
gone-to-seed house

& then, it started
crying itself.

'This place grew me! '
sobbed my tears

& now
(somehow)

either it or I
had changed.

Only the ghosts of ghosts
remained.

*

Going back to Ireland is often referred to as going 'back to the auld sod' and so it is that I have the landscape of my childhood question me as I remain silent in the face of fixed places such as houses melt into literally thin air and I walk through what is there but isn't there anymore. I am my own living ghost.

The Irish greeting of 'Is it yourself that's in it? ' always amused me as if the greeter was making sure that your corpereal shape hadn't indeed been taken over by the Devil and that you were now a man possessed! If the answer was 'Sure...aren't ya seeing me with your own two eyes ya ejeet or is it blind ya are or what! ' then that indeed was you. If a deep dark voice that smelt of sulphur boomed 'I am the Lord of the Underworld earthling and you will rot in Hell if you don't buy me a pint! ' then it was more likely the Devil himself or somebody with a wicked sense of humour. Anyway and anyhow the Devil you know was always better than the Devil ya didn't know. Better to err on the side of caution rather than be having a hell of a time in the place down below.