alienationYou woke up one morning and felt completely different. That is okay, because we both know that the only thing certain is that nothing ever is. I just wish you would have told me then, so I could have tried to wake up feeling different too. I'd rather hear your voice tell me these things than endlessly trying to listen close enough to hear your eyes tell me to stop kissing you. Because regardless of how pretty they are, they aren't always very clear.So now I lay awake in bed during the days and remember what it felt like to be wrapped up in your skin rather than my blankets. And during the weekends I fall asleep in another boys' embrace and we discuss how odd it is that when he touches me I feel at ease, but when you touch me you set my entire skin on fire. And how odd it is that he once loved me and I once loved him, but now we can't seem to remember how to love each other, and we both find ourselves wishing for other hands when we entangle our fingers. But it's so much better than sp
OverwroughtI am traveling with ghosts in empty-headed rooms, I am swimming twenty-five years into the future of absent-minded hurt. I am making no sense out of this, no sense out of the words that are tripping into my ears and snapping against my skin, I am stumbling through the hallways of the empty, empty antiseptic rooms. I am asking and hoping and wishing too much; I am trying to find myself in the midst of chaos. I am, simply said, falling. I'm not grounded anymore, I'm not secure anymore, I'm not who I used to be.And, for once, I want to be my old self.I am stepping into the pitfalls of life with scary accuracy, I am kissing the sky with every breath I take, I am begging for freedom. I am the youthful old soul, I am the one that they say will die young, I'm the one who looks at you and forgets who you said you were and looks deeper. I'm the kind of person that you at once avoid and draw closer to because I will never take the truth for granted. I am closing my eyes on the highway and open
e.e.cummingsThe day you left, I skipped school to see you off.I said, "There are more important things than school."You said, "I never said there weren't."Now, I mostly miss you, and usually on Sundays, I make my way to the place where we used to sit out Sunday School. There's still a Bible on the rock where I think you might have left it, and I pick it up and read it. I've never gotten past the gospel of Matthew, because every time I read it I see you staring at the sky and asking if Heaven's hypothetical.There were stars in the sky that night, and you said you used to think they were god shining through a curtain.Once we talked about Our Father who Art in Heaven and you told me that if you were a believer, you'd say both your fathers art in heaven, and hallowed be their names.I remember the day I skipped fourth block, and we sat on the rocks and smoked. You told me it wasn't good to abandon my education, so you taught me e.e.cummings-"I like my body when it is with yourbody."I learned t
True SilenceNature is a name enshrouded in mystery. Some say it possesses a unique mind of its own and devises plans humans would be incapable of doing. It has secrets that are beyond comprehension of mortals. Yet at times, nature allows such secrets to be unveiled by a select few humans. One of such secrets is True Silence.SilenceIt was a still night too still in fact. The overgrown pine trees lining the driveway rustled not the slightest, looming over, resembling silent guardians. The eerie northern winds along with its wailing notes had settled as dust in perforated holes behind door frames remained untouched. The wilderness too hushed as bats fled the area and grasshoppers and crickets bounded off, reclining from the aura that surrounded that house. If preciseness be employed then; that house on that very night.While nature prepared its festivities for the next few moments, a girl lay under covers of a comfortable double bed, slowly noticing all familiar sounds around her dimi
the clockwork liari. we dusted dreams off people like the first snowflakes of the season. you'd take one and rest it on the center of your tongue because you hated the taste of ice cream and wanted to reset what cold tasted like to you.you taught me that the cold could be bitter, and so could people's dreams.you drank out of out-of-order wells because you believed they still worked and that the government was keeping it all to itself.i never realized how insane you made me before i wrote this all down.ii. i wished on the sun because i ran out of shooting stars.and just to spite me, you began wishing on raindrops because you believed that they were so many, one of them was bound to remember you.but we both ended up laughing hysterically with protruding knives on a bloodstained floor, didn't we?iii. i talked to clockwork towers and told them to lie because if they stopped for just a while, all the time in the world would seize.one human, two human
you never knew.Every summer in Munich the rain used to fall in buckets tepid, luminescent rain, like crystal slices, sluicing through the green trees leaves and loosening the earth around the mountains so much that the smaller towns had to evacuate. It slicked the city streets and made the sky as gray as them. I went out every day while the adults sat indoors around fireplaces to complain about the wet weather, and lied and said it was only because I liked to watch. My mother would shake her finger every time I dripped warm rainwater into the house and my brother would warn me in whisper that if I stayed out too long, I could drown.I only half-lied. I loved to watch, watch from under the loose flooring of the porch as the rain came down. But Sam loved the rain more, and that was part of why I loved to watch. Loved to watch him watch. As we got older, more and more he would venture out, and sit in the grass as the rain fell around him, his face turned to the white sky. Sam liked the peace and
BleedTo bleed. To be human. That was all he ever asked for. A chance to show weakness. To be something imperfect. Something his father didn't need him to be. He wanted to be human and make mistakes. To do things the gods didn't do.What was so wrong with that?
The Siren - 18John played Mag’s Bar and Grill on Wednesdays and Fridays; on Tuesdays, he provided ambience for The Staghorn, a fine-dining establishment that specialized in farm-raised venison; Thursday saw him at Three Rivers Wine Lounge. Saturday night, though, at five-thirty, Mike took over.“I really kind of don’t like this,” he told Sandie uncertainly, poking his head out of the vestry with a flash of Ordinary Time green. “We’re worshiping. That’s not to be used for whatever he’s using it for. I mean, it’s great if he wants to sing in church, but the whole point is to make a joyful noise unto the Lord, and I’m not really sure he gets that concept.”Sandie shrugged and looked at John for help, but John was more interested in the large church calendar pinned to the wall.“I think he wants a demonstration,” she said, raising her voice as Mike disappeared back into the glorified closet to look for a st