Begin.

Allow for regret and the adoration that comes with it. In time I have done nothing. As time passes I still have done nothing. Love me for it. Worship skin and cling. Praise be.

Meeting Secret

Blind me.

Build me.

Break me.

Bruise me.

By the end, I want you to own me, taken up in snatches and locked away. I am a curse to those who don't understand what blessings are, or how they may be disguised.

I get lost easily. Frightened. Fascinated.

Please, if I beg, will you find me?

There is reason I'm a Gemini, not a sign built on earth. If I am air, what are you?

What...aren't you?

This is fright in color. Something nearer black than the dark side of the world. Something sickly and exposed, like laughter left to for long. Broken open or apart. Something sinful like you've done before, but exhilarating like the first time an underage girl went down on you.

REmember the feeling of her lips as she tried to remember how to breathe? That's what it's like, just stretching for a moment you can't remember properly because sentiment gets lost. Degraded, paraded along the shores of virtue too dark to reminisce by.

Do you remember anything like the light of the lighthouse offshore the first time you actually made-like and didn't just fuck? Or maybe it was love, except she didn't remember it that way - just came up for air when it was all over, and kissed you, and when you said "I love you," her eyes glimmered.

"I like you," she said. "A lot."

Really, all that mattered was that it was a lot. More than a little, or just is. The qualifier made all the difference, until it felt like she'd proclaimed her undying love for you from the top of the world.

It really is just imagination. Hard to recall exactly, but take my word for it. Imagination. Not reality. Not like the first time a candy bar walked out of the dollar store in your pocket, or you asked a man for a twenty and got it because you had a knife to his back where no one could see.

They all thought he was generous, or later, that he'd known you, because he refused anyone else who asked, with cold looks and pleasant "fuck off"s.

Imagination is just a folding of reality. Remember it.

Imagination is nothing like when you started calling your best friend by her last name because too many boys had her first. Or when you spent an entire afternoon sleeping in an elderly man's living room because he was away and you felt more comfortable in an empty house than being home.

Maybe it's close to the panic of losing a sharp edge after one too many drinks, but when you learned to long for loss of memory, the whole damn world taunted you. And you still couldn't lose control. It was written into you, the way your eye color was established when you had just gotten out of second grade. Before then, everyone just assumed they were grey, like the rest of your monochromatic existence.

You had to borrow paint brushes from an old friend and rob the corner store to add something like a rose tint back into life.

And somewhere between taking coins off the street and taking them from people, you discovered how many shades red has.

If this were a fictional account of someone I knew, I'd lie and say it wasn't. But when I'm writing another life in the twilight zone from Sunday backwards...no lies necessary. It's still not true.

But your first boyfriend wanted to ask who the sixth man in your life was, and I told him I'd inquire. There's only been four that I know of and half are gone by now; virtue of time.

Have you ever kissed wind?

I have and here's a secret for you - he uses a lot of tongue ever though he's gentle about it. Not like making out with water and having hands touch you places reserved for a final date. I guess I could forgive him, though, even if you couldn't. He's good enough in bed and I don't like kissing much anyway.

But I have a secret to tell you. Listen close because it's important and I don't want you to forget too quick. I don't like kissing because it's too close. That's a vulnerability. Something broken down into where it hurts and I can't get away. Unless I bite, because anyone sane pulls away after that.

The ones who aren't sane...well, I don't leave much to deal with, usually. But every so often I don't have a real reason to bite. Just the voice inside reminding me, "you're afraid, he's too close." Sometimes I need that reminder.

Like this one time when I ran away from home because I couldn't stand the silence. I flew on wings made of carpenterized steel to someone else's hell-hole and spent the day admiring birds and getting mistaken for someone brave.

I have the bruises to prove it, because I crashed so many times when I was flying, and the earth had a smug grin every time I launched myself back into air. Or at least, that's what I tell people. The ones who believe me just nod and shake their heads; clumsiness is a natural mask.

Serves well for every time I find myself associating with the other side. Anyway, what you have to know is this - my secret...

IT's in the way they look at you, with their eyes. That's what reminds me what fear is. Not selfishness or a depth of self-loathing, but fear. And I'll tell you right now that I'd feel safer with someone trying to kill me than having eyes meeting mine, and something unknown in their depths.

But that's a secret, and I know you won't tell anyone because truthfully... Who else is there to tell?

Four Letter Words

When did reality come to haunt me?

I love. I hate. I fear.

Love you. Hate you. Fear you.

Damn you.

Damn you.

All your emotions. All the things you force me to feel - damn you. And hold me close so I can hate you while I love you. Hold me close; I'm the wild animal tamed under touch. But still wild. Still dangerous.

Love me, damn you. Hold me. Hate... I hate that you love and I can't prove you wrong. Hate that I'm beginning to feel this. Hold me, damn you.

Make me. I dare you.

I'll hurt you. So hurt me first. Let me hate you so it won't hurt me when I love you.

I don't want you.

Free - I want to be free.

This is binding. You're holding me captive. Hold me, hurt me, love me -

Damn you!

I can't fight you.

Let me go! Let. Me. Go.

I am my own, not yours. Not yours. Don't touch, don't antagonize. I am myself. Don't... Don't...

Those words.

You're a spider with a web. Damn you. Damn your words.

I love you - hate you.

Hate you. Don't touch me!

Hold me.

Captive. Captivated.

Hurt me. Make me. Kill me, mark me. But don't touch me.

This is fear; can you taste it? I hate you, hate you, hate...

Don't say that!

Let me go!

No hands, not there, not here -

Stop, stop, stop -

I want -

I hate -

Love -

Need -

No - don't, don't!

Hurt, hate, hell...

Don't. Please...please, don't.

I love you.

Damn you.

No you don't.

Yes, I do.

Please, please don't. I don't want -

I love you.

No, please -

I love you.

No, no, no, no -

I.

- nonono -

Love.

No. No. No.

You.

-
-
-

What'd I tell you? Say it often enough and anyone will believe it.

What now?

Get rid of her, I guess.

Why?

What d'you mean, 'why'? It was just an experiment.

But -

But what? She believed you, you got what you wanted, and now you can drop her. Simple as that. I gotta go now, though. Catch up with you later.

-
-
-

Don't touch me. Please.

Then I won't.

You know what you've done?

I... I'm sorry.

Sorry? Sorry? Ha! Don't apologize to me. Words are power. It's yourself you should be talking to.

Wait! Don't go.

Why not?

Be-because... I - I love you.

I know. Goodbye.

Under touch of madness.

There are only a few thousand miles to cross. A world, and then some. A bit of air, a patch of ocean and land. I could make it there if I wanted to, but I have an addiction to this grip on sadness and the feeling of being not quite whole.

These songs warn me that you'll come back one day. No matter how far. It's called love, they say in whispered words that I have to believe. Once you hear something this many times... It's impossible not to remember, even if there's difficulty in belief. But I never had difficulty believing in strangers.

We are strangers in a strange land, touching words and wisdoms that never came to mind when we were safely ensorcled back home.

The tears come from the birds for the failures of the human race, and the clouds. The doves weep for the clouds.

And I cry for the ocean.

Sometimes it's hard to remember what friendship tastes like when it's all mixed up in possibilities. But that's the thread we hold closest, and the one that binds us, for as long as memory may hold.

I'm not a goldfish.

Even though I sometimes feel the past slipping through the cracks in the back and bottom of my skull; my fingers will always remember, but I don't.

You'll be the first of too many lasts, and the last of not enough firsts. But don't take this personally because the sun has gone down and the music is still fresh in my head. It's telling me that I cry when you smile, and maybe I do, but it's the first time when I've understood how people can cry for joy.

Or sorrow.

Or at all.

Make promises on empty air and cups filled with tea.

Just a coincidence that kitchen knives are made of the same material as bridges. And silk still stops bullets aimed for the heart, but maybe not the head. We're too thought-oriented, and not enough. And maybe these words will reach somewhere inside us until things fall apart. But maybe not, again.

Maybe not yet.

Please don't walk away. Please... Just stay with me. It's a question of who meant what and the end line was in the end zone a bit too far out in left field so it was the next team's right. It's all over. Welcome to the madness. Welcome to the start.

I'll stay.

You come to me.

Questions Never to Ask a Poet.

how old r u

I am younger than spring. and younger than the earth herself, though maybe stretching credulity into stars.

u a sexual girl

Venus is my goddess, but Diana is in my blood.


so u like big cocks


Chickens hold little appeal, unless it's just chicken, and then it's fun enough. But I don't run to hide when the tides come in and the moon is still the ruler of the star infested sky.

How to love.

If you're going to hurt me, make sure you do it right, this time. Don't do any of that easy stuff; don't wait to make a move, and let us ease into this thing. I don't care what you call it; don't hold back.

Because time breaks, and time laughs, and time tells me that things are always temporary. No matter how long I'm mad, I'll be happy again someday. And no matter how many tears I cry, there will be an end, and I'll smile one more time.

I don't want you to be just a whimper on the face of my existence. I want you to prove you were in my life, no matter how short it was. I want you to be a mark somewhere inside my legs, because you're still a secret, no matter how many people I tell and no one really understands.

But if we're going to do this, we're going to do this the right way. And the right way is the hard way, in case you were wondering. The right way is the way that leaves me with the marks inside so that when it's over - and it'll end someday, whether we want it to or not - I should still have those mind-and-body scars to prove that something went down between us, even if it was only me kneeling and praying to a god I don't believe in to come save whatever might be left.

I don't make predictions anymore, and I've given up trying to foretell a future I don't believe will really exist; this is just a trace and a taste of what might happen one day. But I need to know that when that day comes, I can walk away from you and still know you're with me, no matter what. This is why I'm asking, and telling you how you're supposed to love. I don't give how to lessons normally, but I thought you ought to know, just because you're not used to the kind of person I am.

Because the world tilts three shades too far to the left sometimes and that's when you're leaning against me, but when it's tilted a bit too right then you're standing on your own, and I like that. But I also like knowing that if I'm going to fall, you'll be more stable than you are. I don't want you to catch me; I've got the scrapes and bruises of a collector. I just don't want you to stare and wonder what the hell just happened. It's something that will. I promise.

Maybe promises aren't exactly what you had in mind when this first started out. I told you things would go as they would go. And they are going. We're two star signs and we move fast because you're air and I'm fire and when air burns, the fire gets hotter than it is in hell. Hot enough to melt the heavens and maybe convince angels that sin is a taste of the real life. You want to stretch down and touch humanity once more, just to see what we can offer.

I know what I'm trying to say, but the words keep slipping off the tongue into something different. These aren't the words I meant to write, and they're still just wandering in circles; ramblin' man, I guess. A bit too drunk to function when the solstice goes by. I just want an answer, and that's whether or not you'll love the way I do.

Like there's no tomorrow.

Like you've never been hurt.

Like the world isn't looking.

Like no one else has to know.

Like your heart's not beating.

Like your lungs aren't breathing.

Like you're still believing in me.

You've got to know how I love or you'll be swept up and away and you'll be grabbing for the shores. You've got to trust this ocean, and believe that maybe it's not out to get you. The dolphins aren't sharks; they're coming to your rescue. And above all, I need you to trust yourself, because when this world ends, you're the one who'll still be alive, if cut adrift. But have faith in how strong you can be, if you need to be. And you'll be fine, love.

That's a promise.

Now say it with me.

I love you.

Savior.

This is an accidental accordion, run sideways and mutilated until all that's left is some outdated version of a hobo dressed in a tuxedo he stole from the prom queen's second date (the first one was late). Or maybe I'm making that up and this is really some philanthropic farmer boy with an underground joy in destroying the peace and quiet of towns. Frozen gowns dipped in sapphire paint to cover up the taint of the oil that made them all black to begin with.

Basically, it's not a muse if it's not amusing on some level - to hell with inspiration, this is desperation talking through the fingers who only know one flavor. (And for the record, savior doesn't come in lemon-lime.)

7 ate 9.

How well do you know fear? Is it here, deep inside, or outside on a ride like a rollercoaster, faster than steam and lightning? What is frightening just scares the air away until I can't breathe or see a reason to keep fighting. If it was lightning, then maybe I'd stretch out a hand, be inviting; but it's not. Just eyes that strip away a disguise I've known for too many years. It's here - fears illuminate, enumerate, consumer ate the last bit of what I meant to say. But I guess that's okay. It's not like I need a road map for how to be afraid. Just need a little nudging for getting out of that way.

Nameless.

When I'm alone at night, I stare at the ceiling. I'm alone. It's dark, and the ceiling stares back. I won't move, even though my left calf itches, sending tingly messages to my brain. My eyes overrule the order. They're watering, enough to tell me that I fell asleep too early in the day. Don't move, don't whisper, don't blink...or it all goes away.

Am I imagining things? The ceiling shakes its head like it understands my thoughts. No, you're not.

Good. CAn I blink?

I'll still be here, he assures me.

My eyes drift shut and snap open. The ceiling doesn't have a face anymore. I sit up, looking -

I'm right here, the wall croons. I haven't left.

I can't blink - it's all a dream!

No it's not. Close your eyes. I'm here. I'll be here.

I don't let my eyes shut. They feel heavy. The wall shrugs, but he's smiling.

I won't disappear.

You did before.

I moved.

Isn't that the same?

Depends who you're talking to.

My eyes close and open. I' know he'll be gone -

Right here, the floor calls. I'm still here. I haven't gone.

But you will, won't you.

Never.

Don't say never. I squeeze my eyes shut. You're gone now.

A warm touch on my shoulder.

Won't you learn? I'm never gone.

Sister act.

She's an addict. Too young for the warning signs, but they're there anyway. She's curled up in the smoking section; only takes up half a bench, and she's shaking even while she sleeps. When her eyes meet someone's they're big and dark like she's about to cry. And they're black, like her shorts and her shoes, and her jacket and her hair, and the guard across her wrist to hide all the marks.

She's dying and maybe now would be a good time to sit down and offer last words... But there's a black man in a white robe sitting across from her, and a blue-shirted white man, sucking on a cig. And you don't smoke anyway.

so you walk on by.

G'night, sister.

Haven't seen you in years.

Living room II.

Play a game with me. Come and lie in the living room, by the windows, clothing discarded. The impurities of day aren't yet come by dawn's first light. No, really. Walk, and breathe free air with the windows open and a snatch of soul left free to wander. Don't care what the rest of the neighborhood would think because you're the only one awake at that hour. You're the only one with the guts to do something so intimate with the damn blinds open, don't you know?

Across the street is that family who you used to babysit for, and their two little blonde boys who haven't grown up much in years at all. And then there's the house that your old history teacher used to live in - maybe still does - but it's so empty at times that maybe no one ever really lived there.

Hey, hey... And next door in the brick house is the family with the kids your sister 'sat for, and the other side has more kids, and a cop and a huge Rottweiler that used to be an adorable pup. You liked him as a pup. Remember?

There's more people down the street, and up it, who'd be incensed to know what you're dong. They'd say you were sick and make petitions and call the press and maybe even put signs around your house.

"Warning: Sick mind."

You know none of them stop and think. You hardly stop and think, sometimes. Mostly you think on the go, but thats pre-programmed thinking. It doesn't take much effort to decide to step right when a car is coming at you, or a cyclist, or another human being. The real thinking comes when you stand up straighter and hold your ground, stare them down like the trains on the train tracks, the way you used to do when you were young.

Drivers always wanted to know if you had a death wish. But you always smiled and pointed to the little red marker, where the trains stopped for the station. Not suicidal. Just thinking.

And still, the rest of the street wouldn't see it like that. They wouldn't get that there's a certain time for being exposed, vulnerable. They'd think it was something all the time. But it's not. Just like the only trains that stop come Monday, Thursday, Saturday at three-fifteen, so the only time for sun-kissed skin in a living room is five-thirty, the am, when the rest of the world isn't quite awake enough to find you.

Here to there.

Just look at me.

Please.

Look at me and tell me what I am, exactly.

Besides the obvious - what's here that you see that I don't? Because that is the root of confusion, love. You see things in me that I can't even imagine. Great deeds, or steadfastness. Something white, maybe.

But let me tell you a secret about white. It's the color of you and me. Angel aren't white. They're blue. Hell isn't black - it's yellow. You've mixed up all the words and colors.

Or they did.

White is my color, and yours, and that's all I see that might have been marginally attractive. Allow me a minute of margin, a moment of confusion.

I didn't come looking for anyone. I went searching for the words that had eluded me for so long. Words fall back into place after a year or so apart. It feels like coming home to earth, breathing air again that isn't pre-packaged and measured inside a protective atmosphere. That's home.

I speak truth when I concentrate, and I swear on a soul I'm not sure I have that I didn't go to look for anyone. Maybe his appearance kicked me so hard in the ribs because of that. I remember the man he was before the boy he became, not even a boy, but something folded and fuzzy on the outside lines. I remember his smile, like he didn't know pain or anger or sadness, and I remember just wanting a piece of that, to bask in the genuine peaceful perfection.

He came back as someone totally different, and it was a kick in the gut to realize what he had become. Friends and family die everyday. But when was your last moment of purity? Can't remember? Nor can I. But his was on record - memory.

His appeal changed from purest to tragic, a celebration of sadness and loss.

That's why.

That's all.

But I didn't go looking for anyone. I just happen to pick them up. Natural charisma? I don't know. A smile works wonders, sometimes, and the odd bit of unintentional flirting.

I swear I don't go looking for people. They find me. I have an invisible neon sign attached, I guess - "Need help? Seek within." The fine print must say "yourself" but no one ever reads fine print anyway.

They all come expecting miracles. I'm not what I once was. I gave up working miracles for a paid job preventing death. Except actually I'm just a desk worker, guarding papers, handing out basketballs and BandAids. I don't work miracles anymore, but the neon sign still glows invisibly and the people I know can see it.

I'm more packed with secrets than a vault, but I don't open except to a voice scan, and maybe to the sanctity of paper. It's all hidden anyway.

I don't go looking; they find me.

I attract the unbalanced - the girl whose mother is in Romania and whose family has disowned her. The girl who never stretched until she hit college. The girl who didn't know what love was until someone held a hand out instead of up. Most of them never knew what love was. Or what the possibility of love was. But my two now? I don't play lightly with poets. They're at higher risk for walking slowly and liking everyone equally.

Living room.

At five thirty in the morning, I wander around, and usually end up in the living room. The sun's baby rays trickle in through the window, and I curl up on the rug, blissful and calm as each new sparkle strikes higher in the sky. I feel the familiar kiss of cool air along my spine while my chest presses against bared knees. I breathe, and the sun breathes with me.
I can close my eyes and lean back, and pick whatever position I want; usually it's provocative. I lay on my back with my legs spread wide, inviting the dashing young sun to come play. Drips of light caress skin, and I arch under the soft touches until my back forgets what it's like to be part of the floor.
Just enough curve to almost break, but I don't. I shut my eyes and tip my head to the side to feel the familiar roughness of the rug against my cheek. My lips open and I breathe the scent of a fresh morning, underlaid with dog feet and old popcorn kernels.
Shadows pin my hands above my head, and necessity is a blindfold. I struggle, but only because the overall results become more interesting. It's all invitation anyway; come play, come play.
But when the sun light is full and it's nearing six, I sit up and draw my knees back in. What's beautiful at odd hours isn't when the hours turn even. And skin under sun at five thirty am changes to a naked crazy girl when the hour begins to toll.

Nowhere, no way.

These are my words, love, so listen close and forget to blink. I don't hear your voice; you're not my hallucination. You're more real than the feelings I learned how to cauterize (WikiHow knows everything); I know. I've tasted you.

The human being inside morphs to an oracle, mixed in words. These marks don't fade - just keep growing.

You aren't a muse, and these words don't come easily. Truth never does. Rather it falters, fades and slide in like the young sun hacking through smog. I don't hear you because you never said anything strong enough for me to listen. You're not the one who forced my mind.

But you could have had my body. It's stronger than my mind, though bruises accrue more easily. Blood yet claws at the under-surface of my legs, like black water under ice, and the clotting spreads. I could teach kids the insides of the rainbow, the guts and bolts of yellow, green and blue.

I don't sing for you and your songs can't find me. We are nothing but negative, carved deeper into rock than addiction could account for. Too far to touch - I am simplicity.

And you are not.

I have words to sketch a wall between souls too close. or minds, too warped to meld. You should have chosen some other thoughts to lust after; I'm too used to being used.

You'll never climb these walls.

That's not a challenge.

There are no walls to climb. But the box is too simple for puzzle-trained fingers to open.

You can't get close.
I felt you try, and I panicked. That's not a plea for forgiveness; it's been so long I almost forgot impenetrable defense means I'm safe. That I'm caged, content.

Throw words at the walls-not-there as you will. They'll accumulate, just flower petals on my stage. Maybe I'll look through and smile, but that day is far-future, not-now. The present is for what I know - these pretended grins that maintain contentment in the world.

They think I'm happy.

Don't prove them wrong.

Prince of Hell 846

The prince of Hell once was bright;
Define the dark by failing light.
When angels call his name and sing,
A deadened heart yet lives again.

Angel dust 827

The blood of angels is only rust,
The tears of devils few.
Forgiveness do I beg and trust,
for I would that I dream of you.

In the cold.

It's just another set of words, laid down on a page settled in with a bit of anger as adhesive; I want to know why seeing them makes me want to cry. It's a pair of dice, tossed together. Frozen in time, up in the air, too far apart to touch, but you know they rubbed against one another when they were in your hand. And maybe when they hit the table they'll roll together again, but when the desk is tilted one way or the other and they fall apart...
It's opening up a page and seeing names on it; feeling like the friendship stretches around and I'm just the viewer. Just someone on the outside, looking in and wishing like the matchgirl for a speck of warmth. Leave me out in the cold and I'll die - but it's not the first time and I swear it won't be the last.

Resolution.

We knew hell from the beginning, but maybe Hell didn't know us. Maybe we were just a figment of imagination that creationism forgot to explain away. Maybe we were just something smudged across the landscape of infinity because when you look in the mirror on Monday's you don't see the same man as a Sunday sweep has shown. It's a reality that can be altered as easily as raindrops, or fingerprints.

This is what it feels like to have your words in my head, singing through my fingers some forgotten melody that took two to recreate. I don't care how it got there, but it's staying this time, and I won't let you take your voice back; it's the only bit of you I can safely keep and not worry about forgetting. Or destroying.

I'd say you're mine now, but you're not, because the only bit of you I can claim as my own is still just my brain tricking me into belief. The only bits of you I can hold close are too close for me to hold. Your words are in my fingertips, but I can't connect with those in the same way my brain can, so you're closer to the insides of me than you are to the outside. That's depressing in more ways than one. I want to hold you, hear what your heart beats like when you're so damn frightened you can't breathe. I wanna be there when you choke on air, and maybe act like a lifeguard for once and whisper, I'm a professional rescuer. Can I help you?

'Can' because I don't know if CPR will bring your dead self back into living or if it's something that I have to resurrect through other means. You're afraid of prayer, but what about the woman with the words on her lips? Maybe this is candy-coated and I'm only just a girl with an inkling of what madness entails and how that works around me.

We match.

But sharing life isn't sharing life unless life actually passes between us and all I gave was air. All I got was dioxide - carbon formatting - and words that passed for truth. It's a sin to say I don't believe when all you wanted was an honest exchange but I'm not built for honesty out loud. I only tell the truth on the page, and even then I stretch it; my formula is lies on lies on lies until someone dies of overcharging.

But that'll be someone else, because if you're going to die it's going to be from overexposure.

And I'll be on the Certificate of Death.

Time: the first minute you actually looked, and saw.

Place: between the second glance and the fourth look away.

Purpose: accidental absolution.

This is a resolution I'm making here and in this now that some day I will say something that makes sense to the both of us and doesn't leave you feeling turned inside out or sideways. I'll say something that's got a measure of truth if there's enough salt on top, and then maybe you'll make yourself vulnerable just once, and things might get interesting. But that's just me hoping, and I don't hear your voice in my head.

The Dasti Experiment...6

This is the beginning of the end of the universe.
Mirrors shatter on occasion. The shards are still reflective.
Sunlight still streams through a broken window.
Water is still wet, even when it's raining.
We never saw the sky when the sun began to set - or maybe it was sky setting in the face of a rising sun.
-
-
-
"I guess I'm feeling nostalgic. Or maybe wistful is a better word...you can't be nostalgic if it never happened, right?"

"Walk softly, and carry a really, really big gun."

"All you have to do is love me most. Endlessly."

"Not only have we already crossed that line, but when we did, we shot, stabbed, and burned it."
-
-
-

Feeling nostalgic.

"Do you think it's pure speculation?"

"Is what pure speculation?"

Eloro tilted her head. Teacups sat on the table beside her. Empty teacups. They seemed dull.

Light seeped through the windows. No rain touched the panes. The metal bards did not scold.

"Dasti?"

Dasti turned to face Eloro. She watched him, her hands cupped in her lap. Her eyes followed him as he paced. Dasti looked away. Eloro seemed old to him.

"Is what pure speculation?" Eloro asked again.

Dasti shook his head.

"Forget about it."

Eloro shrugged.

The teacups sat empty.

If it never happened...
-
-
-

Soft.

Airthe breathed in. Softly, he reminded himself. Softly.

The church felt deserted. It wasn't.

Boots and their steps echoed. Airthe could hear them.

Fear wanted to paralyze him.

Softly, he had to remind himself. Soft.

Airthe rolled himself away from the wreckage. He pulled with his hands. He wiggled. He drew himself forward until his arms gave in. Then he tried to push with his legs.

Softly, softly, his mind warned.

Softly.

Airthe tried to push with his legs, what was left of his legs.

The church wasn't soft.

Gunshots.

Carry a big gun.
-
-
-

Love me?

Saxiel felt Totaz' heart beating.

"Taz?"

Totaz looked at Saxiel, but did not say anything. He looked hurt.

Saxiel cradled Totaz closer and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"I love you," Saxiel said. "All right?"

Totaz looked away for a moment. "You love me the most?" he asked. Through the city smog the words sounded small.

"The most," Saxiel agreed.

"Promise?" Totaz looked at Saxiel. "Promise?"

Saxiel nodded. "Promise," he said.

Totaz smiled and hugged Saxiel around the neck tightly.

Endlessly.
-
-
-

Crossed the line.

"You sick – "

"Sick what?" Tsisas purred.

Bruesia had become a puddle on the floor.

Tsisas still held the knife. The knife was red-edged steel.

Ascaeliat couldn't recall if the knife had been red edged before.

Too many words crossed Ascaeliat's mind.

"Sick what?" Tsisas asked, stepping forward, waving the knife in the air. "Sick what? Sick what?"

Ascaeliat pointed at Bruesia.

"She's dead, isn't she?" Tsisas said. His voice sounded solemn.

Ascaeliat's nails dug into his palms.

Tsisas' eyes glittered and he stepped closer. "She was alive before, you know."

Ascaeliat threw a punch at Tsisas' face as hard as he could.

Shot, stabbed. Don't forget burned. Ah yes. Burned.

Muse.

A little discretion
with the muse
if you please.
A little less love,
a bit more hurt -
this is what leaning out windows
entails.

You are mine.

Things change. Things always change. A push and a pull. One stops seeking and the other must come through.

You said I should not be hurt. You are hurting me. You are hurting me. You have forgotten me. Let me haunt you.

Let. Me. Haunt. You.
My memory. I can see you, love. I will follow you. Forever after.
Eventually we become what we did not wish to be. I need to know...
There's only one who may know. The rest of the world is trapped. We are always trapped.

The moment you pull away you breed the obsession. It expands. Explodes. Expounds to something extra, something new. The world opens and laughs. Changes out, away. Changes away, into dust.

Until you learn to accept love, things will not change. Until you learn what it is to fear, I will dog your steps. I hold promises of madness and anger. It is the restlessness inside. I will take you. And we will vanish, away together. They will never know. You are mine. You gave over the keys to yourself.
You donated yourself to me, and I took care of you. Now abandonment? Anger breeds, love. Darling. Love. Anger does not make for a gentle caregiver.
You are sitting. Eating. In the dining hall. You are wearing that pink jacket of yours. Your green backpack with the straps rests on the ground. You are talking. You are ignoring me. I watch you. I will always be watching you. So you can't laugh. You can't smile without knowing I am there. You can't do anything. You... You are trapped. That's the beauty of the watcher, just being there. You are trapped, fettered, chained invisibly. You could rot slowly from the inside out. You are easy to break. You did hand me the keys to yourself.
And I see you...
You're there when I am and the table does not know. You see me, and you tell me you have no desire to talk.
That's fine. I don't want to talk either. I want to hurt you. To show you.
I smile and strike. My fingers curl into a fist. You half-stand. You are angry. I know I'm smiling. I look mad when I smile like that.
You reach for your bag.
I hit you.
Your face. Your face. The side, only once, smiling. And...and I draw back. The rest of the world is staring at me. I can feel them. And while I probably -
No.
I ask the room if they know what I just did. The room is silent, because some people did see. And they don't know how to react. I point at her. She's holding a hand to her face. Incredulity.
I stalk nearer and she fumbles with her backpack. I grab her shoulder, her neck. A wrist. She is furious. I am laughing. I tell the room, this is my roommate. And she ran away from me, the one time I needed her. The whole story, maybe.
A theatrical production, because I can feel the room closing in on me. I know there are people there, people who have called for people. There is danger. But I want to leave her with a memory.
My hand... It's bleeding.
Psychological.
Blood across her face.
My blood.
And she trembles. She might have fought back, once. Blood breaks people. Blood destroys.
You're mine.
You always have been.
Once I latch on, I never let go.
You are mine.

hiver

Explain these things to me, like the taste of sin and why black light is really blue. Console me - your lips taste like truth and make me ashamed to have ever enjoyed the licorice flavor of lies. Maybe hold me, as though the world were shaking itself to death and we were the only humans left to watch, or how you would grip a dying child, crying softly as we rock. But don't leave me - that's fear in a thimble, so distilled the scent could kill by sending my mind into overdrive. Promise me, the way we swore promises when we were young, as informal as assumption; you'll take me with you. Perhaps before you. I'll admit I read your mail; the ticket to Heaven said to bring a friend.

Love lie.

"You know I love you, right?"

"I'm giving you an A+ for effort and a bullet in the head for sheer stupidity."

---

Dying is painful. You don't think it would be, but then again, you've never died before. It's...strange. When the trigger pulls and a bullet goes through your chest, your heart has stopped, blow to pieces by the impact.

Your body goes limp, trembling in my grasp. You are shivering and your mouth is open, eyes wide like you are in pain. I know you're in pain.

I died before, once. Came back too, but there's no way you'll get yourself out of this. You're dead. You're finished.

I smile and settle down on the floor beside you. There's only one thing left.

One minute and thirty-six seconds of consciousness remains in your body, in your brain. You can still hear, taste, feel, experience. For one minute, thirty-six seconds, this world has become hell. Then you'll move on, to some other final rest.

My fingers caress your high cheekbones as your body slips to the floor. "I know you always loved me." Whispered. "But you never really meant it."

You can hear me, even though you can't respond. I have a captive audience for another full minute and a half. You are mine. Your lips are parted and the lower one is flecked with red. Were you breathing blood or did the explosion of your heart set those marks upon your lips?

I can't resist. I lean in. Your mouth is open slightly. My lips tough to yours, just for an instant before I pull away.

Your body twitches. Can't stand my touch, even now, can you? You said you loved me. Even in your dying, final moments you clung to that lie. And yet I know you and I know how closely you always held your facorite falsehoods. You never loved me. You never even tried.

How many summers did we spend together? You don't remember do you? And you think there's something noble about that.

Too many summers to count, or some bullshit like that.

But ask me, and I'll tell you. It's been years. We spent summers together since I was young enough to appreciate flaws and you were old enough to cultivate them.

Straightjacket.

The walls are white, pale and kind. Almost soft,
gentle. Musical, magical. Mayhap mystical if you
believe in that kind of mistake. Slivers of light,
but light ever-where, never-where we expected it
to be. Hounds and hands, hindsight is
frightening to recall, but it's empty here, just
safe, beyond the electric humming of lights.
Slivered lights, cut by the shadows by accidents
attempted on purpose. Never-where. The walls
are soft.
So soft. Lean against them, touch breathe.
Touch.
Touch. Tou -
Can we? Can - touch. Why won't we reach, can
we reach?
The locked, the trapped. A tired arm,
disobeying, lazy. Exhaustive lift the hand but
down by sides it refuses to move up. A bored
hand, disgusted with the abuse of being loved.
Lift the other. Lift, lift to touch. The walls are
soft - NEED to touch. Tou - can't reach. Can't
lift.
The joy of holding, of hugging, turned back. In a
carricature of a child's playfulness. Hug yourself,
myself, ourself. Hold close and tight.
Smiles, smiles.
The walls we see, lean against them and they
give slightly. The walls see. We're here.
The windows have bars, not iron decorations.
The walls are white not plastic.
Soft, soft - throw yourself, them-self, we-self at
them. No pain.
But scream.
Our throat burns.

Goodbye.

It hurts. My body hurts, but it always does at night. I stretch out on the bed, across covers that have known too many bloodstains, and too little chlorox bleach. The laptop is open and green dots hover on the screen, denoting online contacts.
She starts talking to me, but only after I stay hello. Her words are mature and relatively typo-less, but she worries me. She's always worried me. My fingers fly over the keyboard and I press enter.
Don't hurt yourself again.
Shaky words reply that it's hard not to.
I shake my head and my eyes close.
Don't hurt yourself, dammit!
And she tells me no one cares.
I care.
There's a smile in her words. She knows I care, but she doesn't think it's enough. She's tired of liking a guy she's never met, some eighteen-year-old male from twenty-two hours away. She's exhausted with fending off questions from her classmates. She's tired of feeling like her affection is something wrong.
Something corrupted.
Please, please don't. I care. I fucking care!
She's laughing. She's happy. She says it will be all right, and then she signs off.
I stare at the grey icon – the little bubble of silver with an ivory x across it. I stare, and then I reach out to close the laptop and I am numb.
Ten seconds later my phone vibrates. It's my old one, the one from before I got my new one. It's sitting on the dresser, shaking.
The charge should have been out; I had it on all week.
I have a message.
I open it.
I freeze.
I always did love you, you know.
Goodbye.

Selfish.

Sometimes, I don't know why I do things or why I say things. I want to be liked. I need to be liked by someone. I don't need love - I just need someone who will tolerate my presence, maybe care enough to answer me back every once in a while. All I need is the kind of person who can live without losing himself...herself. I want more though.
Maybe that's just me being selfish.
I've been selfish a lot, lately. I do have to wonder if it's contagious. Maybe it's catching... I've gotten sick, then, I suppose. I've picked up what you had. Have. Still have. It's like AIDS - the disease catches you...and then you have it forever, once contracted. There is no cure, but it can be made better...temporarily.
What a nice way to go.
Sorry. I knew I was selfish.
Forgive me.
I'm human.
I should have been more.

Collector.

I'm a collector. I collect scraps of time and file them away for safekeeping. I'm a collector. I collect passing words, and tuck them between the pages of books to flatten and dry. I'm a collector. I collect snapshots of daily life, to arrange in collages in scrapbooks that no one will ever see but me, when I pull them out on rainy days and go back through to realize that every moment meant so much...because of you.