In the sharpest of times,

with racous giggles

caused by bad jokes

and cruel mocking

disguised as playfulness,

I never felt more centered.

Feet pressed against

the rough carpet,

backs aching

from textbooks

and plastic chairs,

small glances

between those who

knew one another best.

Books we won't read

and pencils

we never wish to touch

spread out

across the wooden desks

before us.

Hands tapping deaftly,

fingertips running

through hair,

shoelaces tying,

makeup checked in the

black mirror of a screen.

I sit,

surrounded by the familiarities

of childhood

and routine,

of old friends

and pencil shavings.

Completely encompassed

by the everyday normalcy

of this life that we live.

I smile at appropriate times,

mock at others,

scold ocassionally

until it is time

to move locations

for the exact same thing.

There is always

someone to walk with

in this never-ending cycle.

I wave to people

in the dense crowds,

pushed up against lockers

and body odor.

This is what I know.

This is who I am.

And I smile,

and wave

and mock

and walk

and sigh

and scold

and write

and stretch

until there is nothing

else but these.

And in the midst of

this life,

I realize that I have

never felt more alone.

It happened so suddenly,

when we came upon an existence we so recklessly crafted.

With hands unreasonably weathered and scabbed,

we pushed ourselves into a fabric of identity we had never known,

Our fingertips tingled with our new-found self-expression.

Minds and souls molding together only to split again,

a constant cycle of fusion and reincarnation.

Every time we would combine into one,

a new identity was found,

and everytime we would separate,

we would take different parts for our own.

The same traits were always in the mix

but their reactions to one another were different every time.

A new person was born with each casual glance,

brushing of hands, words uttered.

With the years apart,

we did the same with others,

stumbling under the weight of their own attributes,

bodies and souls changing,

shifting with every inhale of someone's exhale.

This gift that we had given each other so long ago,

this gift of rebirth,

of an identity as flexible as the wind,

coursed through our veins

and sped through our synapses.

And when I saw you again,

new lines etched into your palms

and different hues reflecting from your eyes,h

I turned to despair.

Where were my pieces,

the ones you had taken so long ago?

I had kept yours,

hidden,

locked in a chest so that no one could reach them.

Where were mine?

Had you given them away?

Is that deep blue in your eyes

the payment for my courage?

Is the new confidence in your steps

the price for my laugh?

And you looked at me with such regret,

such sadness.

I wanted to mock you,

shame you,

show you that I had done for you what you should've done for me.

I unlocked the chest

that had never been touched,

the one I had put away

after it had become clear the dreamy,

hazy days of the past were not to return.

I pushed it open,

struggling under its weight

the smell of must and bitterness floating in the air between us.

I smiled the kind of smile that carries no light,

the smile I had gained shortly after you were gone.

I reached into the chest,

prodding for the deepest parts of you

that I had treasured and cherished.

Fingertips scraped the wood,

splinters pricking me as I pressed against it,

probing for any sliver,

anything of you.

Where were you?

I grew frantic,

who had taken you?

I couldn’t even remember giving you away.

"You're gone,"

I told you,

helplessly.

"So are you,"

you said.

Your fingers stretched out to me,

begging, hoping.

I responded,

breathless with a fear of the unknown I had never felt.

Fingertips pressed together,

kinetic energy swirling,

breaths intermingling,

the same puff of air exchanged back and forth.

Our hands fell back to our sides

and I looked into your eyes,

a faint shade of brown now glossed over the deepest of blue.

We parted.

I put a second lock on the chest.

Maybe I would hold onto you longer this time.

It happened so suddenly,

when we came upon an existence so recklessly crafted.

With hands unreasonably weathered and scabbed,

we pushed ourselves into a fabric of identity we had never known,

fingertips tingling with our new-found self-expression.

Minds and souls molding together only to split again,

a constant cycle of fusion and reincarnation.

Every time we would combine into one,

a new identity was found,

and everytime we would separate,

we would take different parts for our own.

The same traits were always in the mix

but their reactions to one another were different every time.

A new person was born with each casual glance,

brushing of hands, words uttered.

With the years apart,

we did the same with others,

stumbling under the weight of their own attributes,

bodies and souls changing,

shifting with every inhale of someone's exhale.

This gift that we had given each other so long ago,

this gift of rebirth,

of an identity as flexible as the wind,

coursed through our veins

and sped through our synapses.

And when I saw you again,

new lines etched into your palms

and different hues reflecting from your eyes,

I turned to despair.

Where were my pieces,

the ones you had taken so long ago?

I had kept yours,

hidden,

locked in a chest so that no one could reach them.

Where were mine?

Had you given them away?

Is that deep blue in your eyes

the payment for my courage?

Is the new confidence in your steps

the price for my laugh?

And you looked at me with such regret,

such sadness.

How could you?

I wanted to mock you,

shame you,

show you that I had done for you what you should've done for me.

I unlocked the chest

that had never been touched,

the one I had put away

after it had become clear the dreamy,

hazy days of the past were not to return.

I pushed it open,

struggling under its weight

the smell of must and bitterness floating in the air between us.

I smiled the kind of smile that carries no light,

the smile I had received shortly after you were gone.

I reached into the chest,

prodding for the deepest parts of you

that I had treasured and cherished.

Fingertips scraped the wood,

splinters pricking me as I pressed against it,

probing for any sliver,

anything of him.

Where were they?

I grew frantic,

who had taken them?

I didn't even remember giving them.

"You're gone,"

I told you,

helplessly.

"So are you,"

you said.

Your fingers stretched out to me,

begging, hoping.

I responded,

breathless with a fear of the unknown I had never felt.

Fingertips pressed together,

kinetic energy swirling,

breaths intermingling,

the same puff of air exchanged back and forth.

Our hands fell back to our sides

and I looked into your eyes,

a faint shade of brown now glossed over the deepest of blue.

We parted.

I put a second lock on the chest.

Maybe I would hold onto you longer this time.

Sometimes, when your face lay unguarded and still in the dead of the night, I could remember why I loved you.

And when you shifted, body pressed against mine, completely familiar and warm, I could imagine how it was when you loved me.

But when you rose for the morning, sparing me nothing but a glance before you were gone for the day, I could no longer imagine anything but your constant disdain.

Then, when you no longer came home, and all that was left in your place was a half-empty closet and oppressive quietness, I could not remember you in any other way than as empty and silent as the apartment now was.

It seemed as if everything had changed, but nothing had at all.

The couch was much too big now, the three gray cushions seeming to expand into infinity. But, you had never really sat on the couch with me. I couldn't remember you ever sitting on it.

The bathroom held only one toothbrush in a holder for three, the two plastic holes seeming to be staring up at me, accusatory loneliness evident within their emptiness. But, you kept your toiletries in a bag, just in case there was a sudden business trip, or office overnighter.

The garage had the space for another car outlined between boxes and shelves, but more often than not your car wasn't even in the garage. You parked it on the curb because it was faster to walk out there than open the garage door. 

Everything seemed so much larger than it had been when you were there, but the more I seemed to think about it, the more I realized that you were never even there in the first place.

The shaking rips through her body with such a terrible ferocity, her lungs cannot hold out. She struggles for breath at the full realization of what has been done to her, as she understands that she will never be what she was, and as she closes her eyes against the blunt and horrific reality that was and is these five hours of her life.

The sixth fast approaches, and she prays the hour she calls the sixth can also be called the last. This is the continuous hope with every passing hour, minute, second; that they will be the final measurable amount of time she will have to endure this gut-wrenching act against her and her dignity.

The ability to voice this basic need has long ago left her with the final collapsing of her vocal chords at the third hour, when her screams became just whispered pleads and then nothing at all, even when her mouth opened and tongue moved to form them. 

Her mouth is dry and she desperately wishes for rain to pour down upon her and deliver her from this unspeakable evil. For she has convinced herself that once the stormy clouds release their conviction, she will be washed clean of the filth that lays upon her.

She watches, almost like a graphic movie, as her purity and light travel down the long descent into the dark abyss of shame. She watches as the primal instincts of lust, coupled with the mind-numbing effects of alcohol tear apart her self-worth. She watches as they take everything that was supposed to be hers with such uncaring savagery that it shakes her to her very core.

The same core this is slowly being chipped away with every violent thrust, every hateful word, and every unwanted touch.

And at the turning of the seventh hour, she watches as her first savior brushes against her nose, the forefront of her army, before a wave of liquid soldier attack, pushing away the suddenly defenseless men who take everything with them. 

These men who take everything with them, leaving her with nothing but cold water pounding against the body she feels she can no longer call her own. 

If one could stain the color of another's tears, 

I would turn yours to red.

A deep crimson, thicker than blood.

So dense, they would clog your eyes,

until it was hard to see.

And when you fell asleep,

the sound of sobs echoing through your room,

your tears would stain the sheets,

dark and permanent against the white satin.

A faint line of pink would stretch down your cheeks

a mark no water could erase.

Only then, would I know,

The stain of your tears 

would be the first thing I would look for.

And I would smile.

Joyous with the knowledge

that even someone like you,

so high above the rest.

Perfectly primmed and manicured,

with a straight smile and bright eyes.

Even you, like I, could cry. 

Arched eyebrows, folded arms, pursed lips: all seeming to glare at me with the reflection of my own palpable disappointment.

I can feel it resting on my tongue, the bitterness polluting my thoughts with its judgmental weight. I push through the taste, my tongue scraping against the roof of my mouth with a frantic desperation to find an essence of anything to distract from my uncompromisingly absolute failure.

Inflating into the back of my mouth, I begin to choke from just threat of it completely engulfing the entire length of my esophagus. Muscles contract as I fight the impulse to release this poison entrapped between my jaws.

My tongue, once saturated with shame, no feels dry, sandpaper against my teeth coated with their dishonesty.

Pounding down my windpipe, my lungs begin to fill with the perverted contamination this monster brings. With one finale exhale, the reaming oxygen flees from my body to be replaced with a toxin of my own design.

This terrible irony does not escape me with the rest of my air, ever present within the otherwise chaotic whirlwind of thoughts encased within the denseness of my skull.

This cancer claiming every corner of my being is one I carefully crafted. With cautious tenderness, I coaxed it into the light from the depths of my mind, its grasp tightening around me, its claws sinking into my skin.

Yet, I never seemed to notice it was my blood flowing from the wounds it had created.

¨How could you?¨

The accusation, the hurt is too much for me to bare and I shut my eyes tightly against what I have done, what I am going to do.

¨Well?¨

I´m frozen, sweat gathering on the back of my neck and across my upper lip. Tear filled eyes meet mine, better reflecting what I had already been able to picture completely.

¨Do you have anything to say for yourself?¨

The argument of guilt had been presented clearly, offering no opportunity of release from this crime, now that everyone had been made aware of just how horrendous complete betrayal could be.

We all knew there was nothing left to say.

¨Very well.¨

A deep breath from all in the room. Frayed nerves sparked the visible anger and disappointment in the air, exuding from those who were encased in the four walls that would only hold awful memories for all involved.

My fists tightened. This was it, this was the moment. I had always known, deep inside my corrupted, poisoned soul there was no hope left. I had started down this twisted path long ago, and now was the time to reap the consequences.

I turned away after the sentencing was delivered, trying to maintain composure against the sound of handcuffs clasping shut, biting into the smooth wrists I was sure would soon be ruff and jagged from the wear the metal would cause.

I was lead out of the courthouse with hands encased around me forearms, keeping me from the swarming press desperate to grasp any remaining information about the high profile case.

¨Mrs. Raymond! Mrs. Raymond!¨

Shouts from these vultures with pens and notebooks in hand surrounding me with their penetrating questions managing to pierce the agitated thoughts of my mind.

¨Are you certain your husband killed your daughter?¨

¨Are you pleased with the verdict?¨

¨What will you do now that your husband is in prison.¨

I kept my face straight, jaw locked as the secrets once again began pounding. How easy it would be, to free this truth that I was sure would never stop fighting, a constant reminder, a consistent struggle.

Nevertheless, my teeth remained pressed together with the knowledge of what the consequences would be. What would happened to not only us, but the rest of the world.

A necessary sacrifice.

The words echoed through my head. With my husbands sentencing, the rest of us would be free. We could return back to life as it was before Darlene´s death.

The pounding became a banging, shaking through my body at the mere thought of her name. I climbed into the back of the car, door shutting loudly behind me.

Sacrifice

I suddenly felt nauseous, my hands clasping around my mouth. My thoughts were screaming, hands shaking as they pressed against all these secrets, all these horrible truths that persisted in their quest to liberation.

I pushed them down my threat, coughing them down my lungs, spreading them through my veins. I deliberately swallowed the toxin that I knew would kill me.

Better I, than every else.

My body yelled in protest at this deliberate act of self-deprecation. My mind settled as it focused only on self-preservation. My heart beat ferociously, unable to stop circulating the cancer to every corner of myself until it had molded itself permanently within every aspect of my being.

My body, betraying itself, began to shake intensively, unable to handle this feeling.

And it was true. I could imagine no greater sacrifice. These shameful truths would weigh on me until shattered. This awful, desperate feeling would never leave me. I would undergo this consistent battle to protect the greedy, condemn the pure.

I would be wounder, irreparably, carrying these scares within while stumbling through life with the haunted look of a soldier tattooed into my irises.

This desperate war between good and evil, in which I was on the latter, and winning, side would never cease.

The full weight of these secrets settled upon me, my muscles aching against the strain.

And with this pulsing, everlasting pain came only one hope. A hope that this tremendous effort was too much, that I was not strong enough to carry on, that it would not be long before these secrets took my life.

All I had to do was bury it with me. 

Arched eyebrows, folded arms, pursed lips: all seeming to glare at me with the reflection of my own palpable disappointment. 

I can feel it resting on my tongue, the bitterness polluting my thoughts with its judgmental weight. I push through the taste, my tongue scraping against the roof of my mouth with a frantic desperation to find an essence of anything to distract from my uncompromisingly absolute failure. 

Inflating into the back of my mouth, I begin to choke from just threat of it completely engulfing the entire length of my esophagus. Muscles contract as I fight the impulse to release this poison entrapped between my jaws. 

My tongue, once saturated with shame, no feels dry, sandpaper against my teeth coated with their dishonesty. 

Pounding down my windpipe, my lungs begin to fill with the perverted contamination this monster brings. With one finale exhale, the reaming oxygen flees from my body to be replaced with a toxin of my own design.

This terrible irony does not escape me with the rest of my air, ever present within the otherwise chaotic whirlwind of thoughts encased within the denseness of my skull. 

This cancer claiming every corner of my being is one I carefully crafted. With cautious tenderness, I coaxed it into the light from the depths of my mind, its grasp tightening around me, its claws sinking into my skin. 

Yet, I never seemed to notice it was my blood flowing from the wounds it had created. 

¨How could you?¨

The accusation, the hurt is too much for me to bare and I shut my eyes tightly against what I have done, what I am going to do. 

¨Well?¨

I´m frozen, sweat gathering on the back of my neck and across my upper lip. Tear filled eyes meet mine, better reflecting what I had already been able to picture completely. 

¨Do you have anything to say for yourself?¨

The argument of guilt had been presented clearly, offering no opportunity of release from this crime, now that everyone had been made aware of just how horrendous complete betrayal could be. 

We all knew there was nothing left to say. 

¨Very well.¨

A deep breath from all in the room. Frayed nerves sparked the visible anger and disappointment in the air, exuding from those who were encased in the four walls that would only hold awful memories for all involved. 

My fists tightened. This was it, this was the moment. I had always known, deep inside my corrupted, poisoned soul there was no hope left. I had started down this twisted path long ago, and now was the time to reap the consequences. 

I turned away after the sentencing was delivered, trying to maintain composure against the sound of handcuffs clasping shut, biting into the smooth wrists I was sure would soon be ruff and jagged from the wear the metal would cause. 

I was lead out of the courthouse with hands encased around me forearms, keeping me from the swarming press desperate to grasp any remaining information about the high profile case. 

¨Mrs. Raymond! Mrs. Raymond!¨

Shouts from these vultures with pens and notebooks in hand surrounding me with their penetrating questions managing to pierce the agitated thoughts of my mind. 

¨Are you certain your husband killed your daughter?¨

¨Are you pleased with the verdict?¨

¨What will you do now that your husband is in prison.¨

I kept my face straight, jaw locked as the secrets once again began pounding. How easy it would be, to free this truth that I was sure would never stop fighting, a constant reminder, a consistent struggle. 

Nevertheless, my teeth remained pressed together with the knowledge of what the consequences would be. What would happened to not only us, but the rest of the world. 

A necessary sacrifice.

The words echoed through my head. With my husbands sentencing, the rest of us would be free. We could return back to life as it was before Darlene´s death.

The pounding became a banging, shaking through my body at the mere thought of her name. I climbed into the back of the car, door shutting loudly behind me. 

Sacrifice

I suddenly felt nauseous, my hands clasping around my mouth. My thoughts were screaming, hands shaking as they pressed against all these secrets, all these horrible truths that persisted in their quest to liberation. 

I pushed them down my threat, coughing them down my lungs, spreading them through my veins. I deliberately swallowed the toxin that I knew would kill me. 

Better I, than every else.

My body yelled in protest at this deliberate act of self-deprecation. My mind settled as it focused only on self-preservation. My heart beat ferociously, unable to stop circulating the cancer to every corner of myself until it had molded itself permanently within every aspect of my being. 

My body, betraying itself, began to shake intensively, unable to handle this feeling. 

And it was true. I could imagine no greater sacrifice. These shameful truths would weigh on me until shattered. This awful, desperate feeling would never leave me. I would undergo this consistent battle to protect the greedy, condemn the pure.

I would be wounder, irreparably, carrying these scares within while stumbling through life with the haunted look of a soldier tattooed into my irises. 

This desperate war between good and evil, in which I was on the latter, and winning, side would never cease.

The full weight of these secrets settled upon me, my muscles aching against the strain.

And with this pulsing, everlasting pain came only one hope. A hope that this tremendous effort was too much, that I was not strong enough to carry on, that it would not be long before these secrets took my life. 

All I had to do was bury it with me. 

Sometimes, in the midst of an especially dark night, rain drizzling, the sound of footsteps pounding against stairs, she would allow herself to imagine five moments. Five different instances within five different futures.

The state of those moments always depended on the state of the footsteps. If they stumbled heavily, the moments were heavy as well, shadows of the life she was already living. If they footsteps were light, the moments brightened. An improved reflection rather than a darker shadow.

And sometimes, when a full moon shined between the blinds, she would allow herself one question. Why? Why stay? Do you want to live this way?

The danger of these nights is she never stops at one question.

Only at night does she thinks of these things. In the day she goes shopping, does laundry, and conducts bath time with a mother's precision. It is in the day that she receives the answers to her questions that plague her in the dark, the reason her moments must stay locked beneath the bed, only to come crawling out in the dead of night.

These answers and reasons come in the face of a boy squinting against the soap in his eyes during his bath. In his blanket she washes every week. In the carrots she buys for him at the store.

They’re in his grin when he sees his father come home from work early and the sound of his laughter when they conspire with quiet, happy whispers.

It is these things that she thinks of when the footsteps stop in front of her door, when she pushes her moments and questions away to be greeted with her son’s father.

She wilts under his blows and taunts and does not allow herself anything but acceptance, survival, simple preservation, unwilling to taint her five moments with all of his hate.

It isn’t until a dreary Sunday evening that she finds a slightly different answer.

She had left him with his father for an afternoon of Christmas shopping. With only four items crossed off her list, her husband called, bidding her to come home. Her son was hurt, he had said.

It seems silly now, but it never occurred to her on the way back that her child had been damaged in any other way than a simple fall, like her husband claimed. She'll refuse to forgive herself for this particular aggression.

She brushed past him at the front door, unconcerned for his distress. She bounded up stairs, him following closely behind until they reached her son's room together.

Door opened, she steps swiftly into the room before faltering, surprise etched onto her face as her husband shifts uncomfortably, worried at his wife's reaction.

Toys flung, curtains ripped, lamp broken; all marks of a story she did not receive in the phone call. A whimper draws her to her son, curled into a ball, wedged into a corner, and shivering violently.

She lifts her child into her arms, his body hanging limply, feeling more like a doll than an actual human.

With his face visible, the bruises forming, the cuts bleeding and the bat she picks up as well, a long stick of wood that brings a violent touch far too familiar, the answers to her questions suddenly seem so transparent, the future moments now plausible.

And with a bat and child in hand she walks steadily with realization, acceptance, and perseverance in a form she has ever experienced before exploding through her body.

With these she leaves, and does not turn back.

With these she leaves, and does not turn back.