Hereditary Debt

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and seventeen

It's funny, they say that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory, but it's the seeing of other people that most reminds me of you. How different you were from everyone else. And -very rarely- I see a similarity. Like today, I met a man that had your mouth, crooked and broken. Gone too hungry too many times to ever leave leftovers on its plate again.

When we kissed I could taste the coffee on his tongue, and knew that he took it like you had, with too much sugar because that was free. A coffee shop favor, sweet charity.

"Dance with me?" He asked.

But I couldn't, because he wouldn't move like you had, and if we did dance, he would stop reminding me of you.

So we talked for a while, and I watched his mouth. It moved like yours. Parting just a bit. Not much to say, and not saying much when it did. I remember, I used to love you like this.

"A soft spoken monster", you called yourself. But you were my Arcadia. The heaven I never thought I could get into.

I still wear your shirt, not sure if I can actually feel you, or am just imagining your skin woven through the fabric.

The tag on it reads;

50% Cotton
30% Polyester
15% Nostalgia
4% Regret
and 1% ....

What is that last one percent? What is the thing that completes the shirt (and by shirt I mean me)?

People always want to touch the pretty things they see, and debt comes hereditarily to me.

Back then, I knew you were yours. Not mine, not theirs, and only fleetingly would I have the chance to take your poverty away.

I scraped off your barnacles while I could. You, so distant, barely noticed when your leeches became mine; your greedy black monkey, now attached to my spine.

I grew heavy with weight, but had a new, impossible, impervious 1%. I had found it in your lips, your mouth, your kiss.

So, the morning you told me, 'I have to go.'
I made too-sweet coffee and said, 'I know.'

And it's funny I guess, in a sort of sad way, that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. Because try as I might, every. damn. night.
I really, can't think what you smelled like.

Lost in the Move

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and twelve

"Lost in the Move"

Forgotten in the rush of things. Packed up, thrown out, thought broke- no doubt. Picked up, dusted off, turned over; "Useless stuff". Tossed aside and left alone, someone else can take it home. But no home needs what's never needed and we'll never see what we've mistreated. It's left behind, dropped down some groove, forever gone; lost in the move.

"Do you want this?"

"I'll never use it."

"But you bought it."

"But you did choose it."

"I didn't need it."

"Neither did I."

"Then- what's it doing here?"

"Don't ask me why."

You left me lying, on your sill.

In the basement, softly spilled

out on the concrete

cold and hard.

You left me frosted,

in your backyard.

I could have fit

in all your boxes,

just lain on top

or slyly dropped in.

I could have slid

just down the side,

I know I was

an easy find.

But if you took me

in the van,

You'd surely lose me

underhand.

I'd roll back under

leather seat,

drift to the bottom

of the sea.

See when you got me,

I was doomed

to be the thing

lost in the move.

The DAA

365 Days of Creativity

day ninety one

the DAA

Have you ever heard of a damage addiction?
Also known as a mutilation vortex
A dramatic chain
The circle of self-destruction

Have you ever met someone so totally addicted to their own problems, they are beyond the reach of help?

Take for example, someone who tells you they have a secret, but they never tell you what the secret is. Though whatever it is, it's terrible, it makes them tremble and glisten and stutter out "I can't." as a refusal to letting you in. And you get this feeling that it's not for your sake, but for theirs. Because they need this secret. It makes them mysterious. Interesting. Special. This secret is the only thing they have.

Yes, you've met someone like this. Someone in love with never being loved. The princess in the tower who cuts down her own rope. The boy in the well who never calls for help. The girl who leaves behind drawings on her desk at school, but never explains what the graphite tears mean. Oh yes, we've met them, lived with them, tried to save them. But they will not be saved.

They can, but they choose pain over pleasure. Their pain is their pleasure.

Now imagine how hard it must be to always be so successfully misunderstood. No one will ever congratulate your depressive achievements. You're sweet isolation is bitterly unrewarding. Maybe once in a while it would be nice to hear how well you're doing at keeping everyone at bay. At letting the audience hang in the dark while they wonder at your dramatics from a far. All you need sometimes is an appreciative nod, or a pat on the back. 

That's where DAA comes in.

Damage Addicts Anonymous.

This is where every wednesday, all the cutters and bulimics, dumpees and artists (oh god, the misunderstood artists!), the narcissists and rape victims come to debate on regurgitation tactics and where to cut themselves, (where is too obvious and where is too risky). The narcissists discuss how to simultaneously keep a conversation on themselves while letting others know their lack of worth.

Meetings start at seven and can run all night.

Lucy, she's been eating lunch alone since she was fifteen, and tasting it twice since she was sixteen.

Meet Sid, he wears his sleeves rolled up until people ask about his scars. He wears his hair over his face to hide his smile when they do.

Charles is an online poet. Only he posts his work half-finished so people think he's self-loathing and gives up on everything. Charles doesn't even like poetry.

Genevieve has been dumped twenty-six times this year, four of which were caused by the abortions.

Jacob loosens the bolts on his bike to get in harsh wipe outs. He reopens his wounds so they leave disfiguring scars.

"Hi I'm Phil, I've been a damage addict for thirteen years. I've burned down three houses, all of which were mine."

"My name is Cherry and I always bet on the sure thing to lose."

"I'm Dylan and I've tried drowning in the ocean four times. I don't want to be saved."

"Hey, Mike here. I've jumped off the wagon again. I'm drunk, and I don't want to be saved."

"It's my first time here after my second time being raped. I didn't call for help."

Meet Megan, an orphaned girl who started DAA when she was eighteen. Megan was not born an orphan - no one is- but she became one just weeks after leaving the womb. It turns out shotgun weddings don't usually hold up past the accident's first birthday. Every time the orphanage would set up an interview for her, Megan would sabotage the meeting. She would spit or cry or insult the lovely, lonely couple.

The orphanage sent her to a private school in the next city where being abandoned made her unique. Kids looked at her with wonder, boys tried to save her and girls tried to comfort her. Megan realized if she ever got adopted, all of this attention would stop. So she kept spitting and crying her way out of being loved.

Once she graduated from school she realized she was so alone, there was no one to be amazed by her pain. So she posted a notice at the community center for 'Damage Addicts Anonymous; a place where we may be alone, together'.

The first week brought in only two. One woman who mistook the hall for the bathroom, and Lyle, a twenty-eight year old who had been faking seizures for over a decade.

Two people this fragmented often think the other can complete them, no matter how rough the fit of the pieces. The couple fell into a dangerous love, the kind where all of your messy weights find a precarious place of balance together. The rocky, turbulent seas of their relationship were calmed only by the gravity of the group they lead. Two tornadoes tied together with a leash. 

Megan and Lyle, the earthquakes that rocked a coastal city to its knees.

The wounded wolves that circled the edges, never accepting assistance, never giving anyone more than a beautiful view of a terrible creature.

Megan and Lyle, they loved each other because their conditions were complementary. Lyle was abusive because of his constant experiments with different medication, and Megan used makeup to make her bruises look, not better, but worse.

Every meeting started with Megan giving her own testimony. As she talked about how her old orphanage Director urged her to leave Lyle, a gloating glower would hang on her face, a satisfied smile sneaking over her cheeks. "The Director says I'm losing control. She offered to pay for my plane ticket home this week." Megan's grin cracks open her scabbed lips. "Mommy thinks I'm broken."

This is when she blows a kiss to Lyle at the back of the room.

Megan and Lyle

sitting in a tree

K-I-L-L-I-N-G

first comes drugs,

then miscarriage

then comes the day they jumped off a bridge

Can you tell she used to be beautiful?

It's hard through all of the bone.

The only reason they died together

Is because they lived alone.

The Vanishing

365 Days of Creativity

day ninety

The Vanishing

I am not on drugs.

I am not insane.

I am not imaginary.

These three sentences I must repeat to myself constantly, for it is only my believing them that makes them true.

It was fun at first, when everyone disappeared. I was free to do anything. I drove down the streets backwards, walked into banks empty handed, and left a millionaire. I had access to the finest kitchens in the world, I could touch every piece of art and smoke every rare cigar. I practiced archery in Target, sniped out mannequins from the Space Needle. Wearing Gucci & Prada I walked through the subways and swam in golden fountains.

The activities were endless. My sanity was not.

What is a millionaire with no one to praise them? What is art with no one to discuss it? And kitchens so grand require a professional chef to do them justice. My carpaccio usually ended up a sad, wilted bowl of mac&cheese.

I quickly noticed the world had been built to entertain billions of people at a time, but to keep one man satisfied was his own responsibility, something I had never learned. I was craving more, as I had always been taught to do. But here, when I had it all at once, I realized how little it actually was.

Restless, wandering, and utterly isolated. I shuffled down the lanes of little lemon villas. Honey coloured houses covered in half-formed dew. Bright-brick walls being hugged by vines of icy ivy. Walking under a trellised archway, a petal shook loose, brushing my cheek in the only caress I hadn't caused in months.

The front door opened easily, welcoming as any home had ever been. This wasn't a house I knew before the Vanishing, but I knew all of the buildings now. The photo albums were still right where I left them, next to the open bottle of a 50 year old Dalmore Scotch that I would have never even seen in another lifetime. How I wished for that lifetime now.

Smiling birthdays, weddings, missing front teeth, finger paintings, prestigious schools, sports games, roller coaster snapshots, tropical vacations, grecian honeymoons, people in images upon memories are the only proof this family had ever existed.

I started carrying a polaroid camera with me. I took a Ducati I could never afford and headed cross-country. 

Here's me at the White House.

This is me at Niagara Falls.

Oh, this one's of me in Central Park.

Little square pieces of proof that I had been there. I left each photo hung up on a wall. Tiny snapshots that said "I was here!" to absolutely no one.

If no one was around to recognize that I existed, did I?

This one's of me on the Vegas Strip.

If no one could see me, was I really here?

Here I am on the Hollywood walk of fame.

If I couldn't speak to anyone, could I even speak at all? Why would I?

Did you see the one of me on fire?

If I am the only one left living, is there anyone living at all?

This is me as Schrodinger's cat.

Am I high? Is the world here anymore? Did I simply die and create this space in the afterlife? Am I dreaming? Is this entire place just images projected onto closed eyelids? Though even if my eyes are open, they are still just images projected onto me. Either externally or internally, this is reality because I choose it to be. I am not dead because I choose not to be. I am alone because...

You cannot control everything.

I sound crazy to you maybe. But who are you really, other than a projection? And an image cannot judge me.

I am not on drugs.

I am not insane.

I am not imaginary.


I am not on drugs.

I am not insane.

I am not imaginary.


I am not...

I am...

On The Boardwalk

365 Days of Creativity

day eighty eight

on the boardwalk

Autumn air hugs my side, cooling my feverish forehead.

The sun-bleached mountains carve the horizon, and if I crease my vision they fade completely. If I raise the cry of the gulls to blot out the sirens, I can almost imagine I'm somewhere else.  I can think that I'm on a distant windy seashore, salty and sweet.

I can almost believe I'm not going to die here in the Valley.

Almost.

The Valley

365 Days of Creativity

day eighty five

The Valley

They come here and fall in love. The sweet young things, swept away by the sun and the sands and the cool dollar signs. Here their youth seems justified, matched and rewarded with the vitality of the lake and the immortality of the sky. Cradled on all sides by mountains and swathed in the blanket of summertime, these girls, these tight bodies and bountiful smiles, they are swallowed here, in the valley.

As they fall through Autumn, memories of the months before blur the descent. The trip is drowned out by a sweet cacophony of downy brown leaves stirred by crisp winds which freeze the dedicatedly bare legs. 

Too distracted are they to notice that Summer has left without them. Dead is the season of their content, and with a wakening thud these buxom beauties land to spend Winter in the belly of the beast. Living, no, surviving year after year. Each passing Winter steals a little more of their youth, and a lot more of their happiness until they are left as icy and bitter as the season itself.

What of Spring? you ask, ah that inspiring time when Lady Earth blossoms into a Mother. Her children sing songs of glacier dew in morning-piercing melodies. That triple time, three months in a row, hopping lightly along with a tip-tip-tip toe. A command of movement given to two young lasses like "March, April May!" The wonder of which is not wasted on this pit of sagging skin and menthol cigarettes. No, springtime is welcomed, for it in turn welcomes the arrival of new slender does, budding with breasts and flowering while they still have a rose to grow. 

Cradled and cooed at then cat-called and crowded, quickly captured and caught up by vultures and hounds. Handsome purebreds though aged, their wallets are plump, and fat appetites are starving for fresh little cunts. See what song has been made by such a morbid routine? The murder of youth by the promise of green. Say goodbye to your soft skin, and goodbye to your dreams, for it's here they are swallowed by the valley, The Queen.

Still

Dear Everyone;

You must all be hoping for a story of how I got caught up in a two month long venture wherein I was captured, trained, fucked and loved and abandoned, and in the end found myself Queen of a kingdom full of ogres and nudists. God, lower your expectations a little. 

I simply had no inspiration. 

Why, you most likely didn't ask?

Because I was too damned happy. My life was simply delightful. I had two weeks off, full of novels and sunshine and vector cereal. Nothing to complain about. NOTHING to write about. And no, I couldn't have written about how happy I was, and definitely NO I don't get inspiration from sunshine or breakfast foods or little kids with face paint on, (that's Canada day, from what I remember, also too many flashes of Hello Kitty accessories for a mid-sized canadian town full of white people, but bitches love overpriced kittens with bows.) so really there was nothing to do but suffer through my blissful existence, contemplating the unimportant questions like Why some authors keep their middle initials, and How long it would take Usain Bolt to get me a coffee and When did I get that bruise?

So upset had I been that I hadn't written in forever that I got into a state of sadness for just long enough to allow me to think above the sea of trivial tasks and actually write something. It's not an epic or anything, but it's more words than cereal.

365 Days of Creativity

day eighty three

STILL

Your words capture me

and kill me

Glistening, untouchable

like gasoline rainbows

Suspended in space

You're voice, still here,

not echoing, but constant

Sounds unending

Respect,

             found,

                       new.

Newfound respect for you.

For me.

You told me once.

And I believed.

                        Believe

Still believing

                     Still listening

Reassuring in it's boldness

Hovering around still

            Not still, but moving

   Always never still.

Caught, preserved, but true.

        Happening now

        Happening always

Forever is right now.

Right now is forever.

drowning in a gasoline rainbow,

           I believe

thoughts 2

365 Days of Creativity

day eighty two

thoughts 2

This garden is fertilized with cigarette butts. These walls are decorated with words, and I don't remember why I put them there. The carpet is filled with the remains of meals, and drowns in drops of spilled drinks. 

I am lonely when I'm home. I am lonely when I'm surrounded. I feel disconnected, unknown, unrealized. I feel like a myth, a mistake. I am out of place in every place that I go. Is there anyone else who feels so alone?

Is it still a missed opportunity if it would have made me dreadfully unhappy?

Though I am, already, dreadfully unhappy. I want love, strength, wisdom. I feel trapped by my naivety. How can anyone speak before they have lived? The young know nothing. Every statement is simply a guess at the unknown. Like pointing the way through a cave with no lantern to guide. 

I don't care enough about anything. My dreams and goals are put on hold for things that I must do. "Fuck the way you live your lives," I scream in immature angst, but what am I proving with words, while my actions mirror yours? 9-5, nickel&dime, I work as you work, I sleep as you sleep, I eat and drink and make mistakes. This is the habit of humanity, but I don't want to be human anymore. I don't feel human anymore. I feel trapped. I feel like reality is a facade, a silly trick played on us, to see who will fall for it. And like lambs to the slaughter, we lap at the fodder, feasting at our troughs.

Everyday I walk along, feeling wholly disconnected from the rest of the world. Isolated within my own mid, cursed with the burden of thoughts. They run in circles, these thoughts of mine. Joining hands and voices in endless arcs of Ring Around the Rosie. "who-are-they what-are-they what-do-they-want?" My own mind mocks me with a melody, while it's my soul that is suffering. It's not a pain so great as depression, more of a hollowness. A constant melancholy. A complete indifference to the world around me. Not a mote of care for schol, work, money. Yet I deeply yearn for a soulful connection, not a fake friendship based on meaningless works. Everyday I walk along, a hypocrite, a young mind trapped by its own deficiencies. I walk troubled and timed and terribly true. I walk alone.

The Oasis

365 Days of Creativity

day seventy seven

There is a place where no one goes

where winds are warm

and palm fronds grow

Beside a stream that glitters gold

and whispers things

that go untold

And drops of dew that grass blades hold

and buds are born

that don't grow old

Only two seasons touch the shores

from spring to summer

to spring once more

And the moon and sun have faces joined

each one a side

of spinning coin

But round this place lies seas of sand

dry and dead

the no-mans lands

and after sixty miles hence

there lies a guard

a concrete fence

A forest waits beyond the wall

with trees that watch

the sands in awe

They crowd and push and yearn toward

the paradise

the summer shores

But broke boughs bend with effort cheap

and bow, become

the willows weep

RANT: Loneliness and an Exploration of What Causes It.

This is a sort of continuation of off my last rant.

***

Lately I've taken to contemplating loneliness, what it means to really be lonely. You can have your family and friends and all that fun stuff, but you're always alone really. Other than the physical companionship of having someone sit next to you, maybe share their opinions with you, even make you laugh once in a while. Other than that, you really are alone. And even if you find someone to connect with, they have their own mind, their own thoughts and within that place they're alone too.

Anyways, I've been thinking about the feeling of loneliness, if it really is a feeling of despair, or if it's  technically being aware of being alone. Because we are, we are truly alone within ourselves, and so honestly we should be feeling loneliness all the time, should we not? Other than when we're with someone, but even then during a conversation you have your thoughts and you're thinking about something completely different or of the words you wish you really could say.

So the only time we're not alone is when two people are completely and honestly saying every thought that comes into their mind. But who does that? No one. People are too scared to say what they think and say what they mean and say what they feel, so we all end up bullshitting each other, and isn't that really the lowest of the low? I mean you start kidding everyone else and soon enough you're going to be kidding yourself too.

And then you're not just lonely, but you're delusional, you're a whole other level of lonely. When you can't even be honest with yourself and no one is honest with you, you're just surrounded by this world made of lies, just completely fucking made of lies, and who's going to break it? It's weird if some does right? It's like "What? You can't say that, you can't come here and just say whatever you want. That's not how society works, that's not how people work anymore, you can't have these urges, you can't want to beat somebody up, you can't just want sex for sex."

What kind of freak just admits that they want to break something? All of a sudden, everything that we were built for, every natural urge becomes completely unacceptable. We've created these lies and now the lies are the truth.  Like everybody wants love and relationship and has manners, and we're not allowed to kill, that's alright, but we're not allowed to talk about it? We're not allowed to talk about the urge to want to? It's fucked.

And now I'm the bad guy, because I'll admit that every once in a while I want to hurt something, I want to really fucking hurt something, and that's weird and that's wrong. When we we're meant to do that, we're violent creatures, we were meant to have anger. If we weren't it wouldn't Fucking exist. It's survival.

Although honestly there's been few out of all the times that I've wanted to destroy something that it was about survival, the rest of the time I just want to fucking do it. I just want to make something bleed because I'm fucking angry. Because it'll fuckin help me, cuz I will be happy. I just want to take something beautiful and shatter it every once in a while. And I think that's fine, that's normal, more people should do that, more people should at least confess that they want to do that.

Sometimes I just want to fuck something and I dont want to have to take care of it. I don't want a boyfriend all the time, I don't want to have to have this stupid emotional connection to enjoy physical pleasure, how is that something that we have made mandatory? How are two things that are so completely different, something that is so visceral like emotion, something that can be created on a whim that can be evoked with simple words, how can something like that have been made to be required so that something that is physical and tangible and real can happen?

We haven't made it so that you have to love or get to know your food to enjoy it. We don't even have to grow the food anymore, you can go out, get someone else to make it for you and all you have to do is enjoy it. No emotional effort, no six dates first, you just get immediate pleasure yet, that's completely ok.

Isn't really satisfying hunger just a physical thing? Isn't eating just a physical act that will result in an emotional response? Pleasure, flavours? Isn't sex then, in theory, just the same thing as having a really good piece of pie? All you're doing is something physical to gain an emotional satisfaction. And everyday people go out and indulge themselves in sweets and sours and salts and it's all fucking fine, but as soon as I want to go fuck somebody, oh that's immoral, that is a sin. I'm a whore and I'm a fucking skank. Well I accept myself and I'm honest.

And I don't know where I am anymore, I started off on loneliness.

I suppose it came down to lies really, and honesty, and how I just want to be honest all the time, but that's not allowed. And maybe that's why I'm lonely, is because I'm so honest. Because I try, I really do try to say what I think and feel, what I truly think and feel, not just a dumbed down and edited version of it. And because I'm the only person that I've met that does that, I'm extremely lonely.

That sucks, because that's the complete reverse of what I said loneliness was before, which was everyone lying and because we're lying to each other and lying to ourselves we've isolated our honest feelings. We've really isolated our souls, and we've trapped ourselves in these prisons of loneliness that have lies for bars, and outside of those bars are more bars that society has set up and that all of our friends have set up, so that even if we wanted to break through our cages of loneliness, there's everyone else's bars to go through.

And because I've broken through, (or mainly, still working on that), I'm lonely. Because once you get outside, there's no one else around, it's just a bunch of fucking bars. I look around and I see a big huge field of cages and every once in a while I'll see a hand reach out or I'll catch a glimpse through the bars at someone's true self, but suddenly a new bar comes because they see someone walking around, someone not in a cage and it fucking scares them.

Here I am in this valley of prisoners and everyone's all locked up inside their little cages surrounded by lies and I'm lonely and I'm outside and I'm waiting for someone else, for anyone else really. To just fucking get out, just break through, I'm not going to say it's not hard, it is hard, and you may lose friends but thats good, it means that you're moving forward. It means that you're slowly leaving behind all the other cages, and that's what I'm going to fucking do!

I'm going to keep moving and I'm going to walk forward, because I know that this big huge field, this plateau of all these rotten cages, this is not it, there's more. There is a place where there's people who are free, and they get to live in paradise and that's where I'm going. I'm going to break off my last few bars and I'm going to go there, and it's just going to be a whole group of people who are honest and true. I'm going to meet them, and we're going to share ourselves, like society has taught us not to.

I may be the only one right now, at least that I know of, but times are changing, and it's onwards and it's upwards, or it's jail. And I'm not going to stay here while everyone surrounds themselves with lies, and other people's lies and society's lies. I'm not going to do it, fuck that.

I know this sounds crazy, and you're probably thinking who the fuck does she think she is and why isn't she in a psych ward, but it's a metaphor god damnit! We all need to be more honest with each other, but mainly ourselves. If you want to break out of your cage, I want to know. I want to help, because honestly, I'm lonely out here.

Push

365 Days of Creativity

day seventy two

Push

The red clay was dry beneath my feet. A hot dust which stole any moisture my skin held, leaving the heels cracked and crumbling like the cliff we stood near. Blistering winds raced in waves, tangling my hair and burning my cheeks. The sun beat down like a spiked club on my bare arms and legs. I clutched my shaking limbs around my naked body, hiding what little I could of the tender skin never usually bared to the elements. small pebbles and stones were gather by the fists of the wind and hurled at frightening speeds. The rocks tore at my pale flesh, puncturing and ripping so I was decorated with sticky stripes of crimson ribbons.

There was a girl in front of me. Her ruby hair was clogged with dust so it matched the dry colour of the dirt smeared on her calves. Her torso was slim and barren, like canvas stretched over iron bars. She looked right, and I saw her cheek was spotted with both freckles and blood. Her nostrils flared wildly, but her jaw was set firm in a vice of defiance. She didn't turn to look at me, and I was thankful our eyes never met.

Men; tall, broad, with eyes colder than frozen steel, even in the heat. They towered beside our line of nine, exuding authority and satisfaction. One barbarian with a burnt forest of hair used the barrel of his pump-action corpse strewer to shove the boy behind me. He whimpered and shuffled closer. I could feel his fear pressing on me like a brand to my back.

A piercing scream, a warbling cry of a soul being ripped from existence. It echoed across the area, bouncing and multiplying off quarry walls until twenty different women were calling to the heavens.

The line shuffled forward, and a sob muffled behind a raw-palmed hand escaped the foremost of the line. That was the last sound to be uttered from the child up front.

I was two away now. My knees shook, and my teeth gnawed at the meat of my bottom lip. I could taste blood and dust and the unbearable flavour of death. He was here, the devastating figure wearing a cloak made of darkness itself. I could feel him gliding close, his eyes the definition of nothingness, his mouth a hungry maw of ink that lead straight to the belly. His presence cut into my heart like the blade of his scythe itself was dug through the sinew in my chest.

The reaper had distracted from the removal of the foremost member of the line, and I received a blow from the shotgun to catalyst my movement forward. The hit was accompanied by a sharp crack, and the air escaped from my lungs. I ignored the broken rib and shuffled forward, a shattered toenail caught the side of a stone, the edge of which dug into the raw flesh of the nail bed.

I was close to her now, but not as close as she was to the edge. Her brick coloured hair buffeted into my face, and I smelled the faintest hint of wild strawberries. The tiniest sliver of evidence of a life which once contained freedom.

I swallowed quickly, trying to breathe deeply, but it was as though death was a vacuum which stole only the oxygen I needed. There was another jab to my ribs, and I felt the bone bend inward even more.

I brought my trembling hands away from my body, and rested them on her sharp shoulders. The edge of the cliff loomed before her, and she faced straight ahead, her eyes to the sky. I tensed up, preparing. Quickly, so it lasted only a second, she brought her hands up to mine, and I felt her fingers squeeze slightly, with the only strength she had left. It was a fleeting contact, a stolen goodbye, a secret thank you.

And then I pushed her.

thoughts

365 Days of Creativity

day seventy one

thoughts

Winter came fast.

The ice and cold swept over everything faster than I've ever seen. It seemed to be a matter of hours. Whatever warmth had been birthed by the short-lived spring was quickly eaten by the frosty bite of winter. Seasons of four seem to be a thing of myth. What happened to the days of summer? Where did the sweet heat of the fiery sun escape to?

Have the gods of summer been forever conquered by the spirits of winter?

I missed you for a while. I dreamed of the scorching blaze of well-lit days. But fantasies fade faster than photographs, and memories are merely mazes of escape. Facades of falsities. I choose not to get lost in them anymore, thinking of summer does not make it come any sooner.

If thoughts were things then I'd have wings and you'd burn brighter than hell. The mysteries of seasons unseen are cases for someone other than me. To delve into the diaries of danger, to read into the memoirs of fear, perhaps would bring an understanding of things, but leave the taste of insanity. I'd know you well if scars were to tell the stories they hold beneath sinew and bone, but these are the haunts of ages. When past and abuse are written uncouth, it's the present that loses all meaning. So wander not into the maze of fate, for finding your way is impossible when there is no end to be found.

I can be close to you without knowing you, and I can learn of you without touching you. But the stories of summer don't let you feel the heat of the sun.

Damaged

365 Days of Creativity

day seventy

Damaged

Just one more. 


One more time and it's done.


One more excruciating, humiliating time, and you can be beautiful. 


This is just something I have to do. 


How could anyone love me if I don't? I wouldn't love me. 


Once more, you can do it. One last heave, one last push, one last forceful and self induced instance of destruction.


It hurts, but all of the things that are worth it do.


I used to cry when I did it. Sometimes it would burn so bad I thought I was bleeding inside. Not anymore. Now I'm stronger. But still not good enough.


I hate that I have to do this. I hate myself even more when I don't. What happens when the lesser of two evils is the one that does more damage?


Stop it. You can do it. One last push and you can leave this room. 


Don't even think about how you'll be back tomorrow.


Don't think about how you'll never escape, how "one more" really just means "for now".


Think about what you want to be. Think about how you won't be good enough for anyone unless you do this. 


Ok, it's ok. Just one more, and I can sleep in peace. One more, and someone will love me. One more, and I'll be happy. 


Maybe.

She closed her eyes and stuck her finger down her throat once more.

This Isn't For You

365 Days of Creativity

day sixty six

I wrote you a poem

It was sweet in design

Loving and honest

"I want you to be mine"

Sounds warm and tender,

like tinder and thyme.

But I wanted to burn it,

so I took it inside.

Back to the depths

of my heart and my mind.

I'm not built to be happy,

loving or kind.

Bring me your past,

but ask not of mine.

Sharing is caring

is feeling divine.

Sharing is caring 

is words full of lies.

Even as you read this,

Even as you try,

to continue to hope,

to continue to pry.

This isn't for you,

it's now to realize.

You think in some way,

it's a matter of time.

I've got to come round,

to see I've been blind.

But I'm wide awake,

it's your dreams and your ties,

that need to be cut,

that need to be fried.

Don't call me baby,

don't try to be kind.

This isn't for you,

you're not in my mind.

You're asking yourself,

then why do I write?

Because I can't care,

and so I deny.

This truth is surreal,

a long twisted vine.

And so I spew fiction,

ignorance is sublime.

The Scapegoat

365 Days of Creativity

day sixty five

Label me

Paint me

Colour me true

Give me a title

A burn or a bruise

Hero or villain

sinner or saint

I'll take on the insults,

the worship,

the blame

Whatever you paint me

that's what you'll see

but no matter the words

that's not what I'll be

No halo, no crown

I'm savior to none

No trident no tail,

no forked serpent tongue

But windows don't choose which view they behold

My story is yours, however it's told.

I Dreamt of You, My Love

365 Days of Creativity

day sixty two

Last night I went to a movie theater. But instead of rows of seats, there were descending levels of floors which each held a few round tables.

I wore a dress, the purpose of which was debatable. For the fabric clung and swung, so fluid that it seemed like water. It was translucent too. The skirt floated, seeming to flow on the air itself, not wanting to lay still.

There was a movie playing, something bright. But there was a stage in front of the screen, and actors were replicating their own actions from the film.

I descended into the room, level by level. My feet were bare, and the rich red carpet sunk where I stepped. It folded around my heels, kissed the soles of my feet.

The place was full of people and trails of smoke. Everyone moved slowly, with leaden, lucid movements like mollasses. Men laughed and uttered great growls as they grabbed their dates, of which there were sometimes two or three.

The women were illustriously decorated with glitter and ice. Dangling earrings like mock chandeliers, cascading necklaces which shimmered like the morning sun fractured through a silken spider web. The women tossed their curls back and laughed, teeth like pearls and skin like cream. 

Men and women chattered carelessly, while their lips didn't move. A hundred laughs tinkled like chimes in the wind.

Pillars of smoke twirled upwards from the tables. Snakes of grey and stone, twisting from the ends of coolly held cigarettes. The trails were so nearly motionless, they seemed like solid things, real reptiles which slowly undulated around a lady's wrist or a glass of scotch.

I reached the third tier down, and I recognized a face. Then another. There was a table with four people and an empty chair which could have only been meant for me. I approached the table, receiving pleasant greetings and warm welcomes. There were two men on the right, one woman on the left, and behind her, a hidden figure.

I leaned onto the back of the empty chair. My hair was piled high, but a stray lock fell onto my shoulder. The silken tendril traced a crescent on my collarbone.

A delicate chain fell from the low cut of my bodice. It swung forward and I caught a glimpse of a coin strung from the silver. On it, a man stands as a savior to a young boy, and the words above the depiction read "Saint Christopher Be My Guide".

At this moment, the movie screen burned white, and the coin around my neck spun. The light from the screen reflected off of the surface of the pendant. The woman on the left leaned back, and the redirected rays reveal the person behind her. The most flawless face in existence, with every shadow thrown back by the illumination. The beam of light delivers a golden glow. Haloed and heavenly, the angel looked at me, and my heart exploded into a thousand blissful pieces. This person, this figure, this ethereally framed statuette was you. And your beauty broke my heart.

Far From Me

365 Days of Creativity

day fifty nine

Sleep;             

Your eyes are closed

         and tightly

                 squeezed

to shut the light

         too bright

you whisper

         reach for my hand

it's rough and cold

         too alien

     for you to hold

         pushed away,

                  I understand

If eyes were closed

my lids like yours

I too would shy

                         away from          ice.

Your dreams stay 

                   quiet

Your lips lay

                  closed

Your skin so 

                friendly

but I, too bold

         shall sit and

                     wait

       shall stay for

                    days

while thoughts so

                    easy

hold 

you

close

Jigsaw

365 Days of Creativity

day fifty seven

Jigsaw

He was born a jigsaw puzzle. Complete and beautiful, not needing anything, not missing anything. He was whole, seamless. A masterpiece.

And then he started to grow up. He went to school. They taught him things. But instead of adding to his wondrous collage, they set boundaries on his beauty. The rules and laws, each method and fact chipped away at him. They did not assist with his growth, but instead broke him down.

They told him how things were, and stopped him from imagining how things could be.

And he let them take him apart. He didn't know any better. He was an innocent child. Young and trusting, he let everyone in.

He let the parents and teachers and lawmen set fences and walls up around his freedom. And before the boy even got to discover what he was capable of, what knowledge he already had, before he even got to explore the landscape of his own masterpiece, it was stolen from him.

The older he got, the quicker the pieces were snatched up. It wasn't long before his mind was greatly hindered. He barely had the ability to dream. He had had so much potential when he entered the world. He had been whole, complete. Now he barely resembled the orchestra he had once been.

The women were the worst. He gave himself to them, heart and soul. They browsed through his pieces, filling their greedy hands and shiny purses. And he loved them. He didn't know what his own happiness cost him, he was blinded by their beauty. 

By the middle of his life, he was fractured. He had lost all powers of imagination. It was all he could do to follow the rules and bend to the law. He was tired and broken. But there was one more woman that he was to meet. And she took more of him than anything ever had.

With nothing but a few dozen fragments left, the man and woman had a child. He was overjoyed. This was his own baby. A part of his soul. But the babe grew into a toddler, and the toddler grew old enough to attend school.

And the man saw that his little babe's life was also a puzzle. That at this moment in time he was perfect. He didn't need teaching or altering, he just needed freedom. And so the man spoke to his wife, and they retrieved the little boy from school. They took him to a small cabin in a fairytale forest where dreams roamed free. The family lived by a warm lake, and they surrounded the babe with love and nature and all things pure and true.

But the little boy had already been chipped away at. His beauty a small part undone. And the man saw this, and he wept deeply, for he could not stand to see another miracle ruined.

The man looked at himself and saw a few splashes of colour here and there, but his marvel was long lost. Too far broken to be saved. And so he did the only good thing he would ever do. He took the last of his pieces, each shard of his soul, and he gave them to his son. He filled the holes in his child until he was near seamless once more. And with the very last sliver of himself, the man completed his son's puzzle, and gave everything he had for his little boy's freedom.

Revenge

365 Days of Creativity

day fifty six

Heart burn

The flaming pain

brutal visions

my lungs tied deep

struggle struggle

this bondage is not exciting-

anymore

Head ache

nausea

rhythmic thrusts

I turn to leave,

but bleed too much.

Thrones of blades

a liars chair

kings abate

pay me no fare

higher on my pedestal

I teeter on the brink

the jester is a bounding fool

he forces me to sink

knees knees

bruised and used and well abused

the crews and crows barren of clothes

tie me gag me kill me fill me

smoke and ash

pyre and trash

he tastes of lemons-

sour darts

rotten cloves, and

hickory

tug of war

with my intestines

offer me to the divine

a last low cry

swallowed whole

reaching to that golden throne

echo echo

gulls will fly

“follow us”

I do abide

black and violet

cyan and pepper

feeling betterbetterbetter

Knotted nerves

unfold-

reveal

scores and scores of apple peels

blossom.bluebells.delicate things.

I wash the skin,

stuff things back in

a hill of water

hard as soft

offers to me, weapons wrought

in sand, in stone, in shades of blight

choices choices

arrows flight

one bonesawbow

“hello hello

pick me though.

I'll be true and I'll be fair,

and more than that,”

I'LL BRING THEIR BLOOD

with me, sinew, bones and sharp

I stabbed back through

the seasonings

feeling

old and young and gagged

thorny whistles, whispered dear

“the jesterjester draws so near”

poised and taught I taught him poise

no more tip me

never-noise

Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love

365 Days of Creativity

day fifty five

Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love

Do you ever feel like you are on a completely separate intellectual level from everyone else? Perhaps intellectual isn't the right word. I don't mean more knowledgable on a subject, or with a greater talent at word problems or math. And not quite emotional levels. Everyone feels fear, anxiety, pain, awe. This level is a mixture of intellectual and emotional, but deeper than them as well.

Maybe this is what being an "old soul" feels like. To not know or feel something, but to be something that everyone else is not. And not to simply be an individual, but to understand in some "spiritual" way truths that others could not even fathom?

The struggle to put into words what I am, it's almost painful. To not be able to express what I mean by feeling alone. And it's not defined by being physically or emotionally abandoned with no friends or family, but in your soul, feeling separated. Detached almost, from reality itself.

Every conversation, every exchanged word and worry, even those you take part in, seem utterly and completely trivial. Infinitesimal beside what you are. Sometimes, to take part in certain conversations is pointless to the brink of pain. Wasting words and time let alone thoughts on these matters is so disturbing, it makes you physically nauseous. The anger and outrage at being asked such trivial questions is insulting to who you are. A blow thrown at the very definition of yourself.

How do you live, how do you continue to care about money, relationships, insults or comments when your soul is so near to the surface? When you are so true to the point of bursting? When the lack of general clarity in the world is so overwhelming? All you want to do is run to the sun and be enveloped in it's superseding warmth.

I am troubled. I am greedy. Not in the material sense, but in ways of understanding. "Knowledge" for lack of a better word, is the only thing I search for. I don't want money or love or power, I simply want to be.

I want to sit in a pillowy hammock and feel the heat on my face. I want to stare at the endless ocean. I want to listen to the stories of the sea and the songs of the wind. I want to understand, and be understood.

I want to sit by a fire in an oversized chair, cradled as in the womb. I wish to do nothing but read. To read and read and soak up all of the knowledge in the entirety of existence. I want to be taken to worlds unrealized, and discover in them truths in myself. And in the end, I wish to take everything I've learned and share it. To give the gift of inner peace to everyone. I wish to stir society. To shake and crumble the foundation, every cold pillar it's been built on. I want to tear down the statue of shallowness. To replace it and to pull back the curtain and reveal nothing but a light. To give a show of sincere and total knowledge. To allow others to be able to, and to join them in the pure joy of being. Let us understand one another.

Let us know? Nay!

Let us feel? Nay!

Let us be the world.

I implore you to evaluate your priorities. What does your mind migrate to? What thoughts fill your head daily?

Truth, beauty, freedom and love. We idolize and strive for them, but are they not the same thing? Isn't the truth freedom? Isn't love beautiful? Isn't beauty freedom and love truthful? These are not merely words, these are the definitions of life. These are not attainable, because you already possess them. The four ideals combine into one single, flawless essence. 

You.

They reside already within yourself, you merely need to bring them forth. To know anything, or anyone, you first need to know yourself.