She lied because the truth was a horror upon which she couldn't bear to reflect; she'd been alone all this time, speaking only to the voices inside her head, telling them lies about who she was, about what the world was, about happiness, about existing in anything but a dystopian hellscape. It was a beautiful lie.

I can't do anything. Not as I watch my memories, slowly, slowly, slowly slipping into the void.

I watch helplessly as a memory of my daughter starts to dissolve into the whirlwind of black. I can see her sweet smile, lighting up the room. She holds her teddy bear and- What was I talking about?

Another memory slowly goes. And then another. And another. Each dissolving in a flurry of color and forgotten love. Until...

who am I?

he sent me flowers,

wrapped in promises.

stems like wires,

love bombs hidden

in every petal.

he told me that

he would

send flowers

every week

because that

was proof that he

loved me.

and i believed him.

reveled in the attention

because i knew nothing else.

but eventually

love bombs

explode

and paint

the sky

with their ashes.

i was

the lucky one

who survived

the nuclear fallout,

who hid in bunkers

until the air

was safe

to breathe again.

but next time

i fall in love,

i'll make sure

i find someone

who doesn't

buy me

flowers.

because flowers

are not a substitute

for love,

nor are they

a synonym.

Closeness that only the most intimately tied can have, and yet we are the most separated beings.

cars in the middle of the woods.

friendship?

laughing, and realizing what happened.

The most painful fall of a lifetime, for it is written in the law of relational beings that it must end in death.

what went wrong? I fell into the mire of love and its grasp on me is unrelenting.

I try to crawl out, grasping at the things around me.

Yet late nights and foggy windows grab me and drag me down.

im falling. Grasping for air, but all I can see is you swirling around me.

“I think I fell in love with you when called me an asshole. Crazy, right? And I very well could be an asshole, depending on who you ask. Anyway, everyone always said you were the sweetest person. You got along with everyone. You helped our classmates out without ever appearing annoyed. Somehow we ended up sitting close by. There were few people I talked to and you were the one I wanted to talk to the most. You were so cute! You fidgeted with pens all the time and your smile was always small and slightly crooked. You hunched over your desk laughing when something was extremely funny. You didn’t do that too often, but you did it around me the most. ‘I’m special’, I thought. I was 100% delusional, I know but, could you blame me? I liked you so much and I didn't even know it! One day, I said something, something you didn’t like. I made your shoulders tense and your eyes hardened to a deep chestnut from its usual soft caramel. “You’re an asshole,” you said and turned your body away from me. I remember my jaw dropping in shock and my heartbeat building in intensity in time with my breaths. I was scared yet enlightened at the same time. ‘I’m special’, I knew. Because you cared about what I said more than other people. You showed a side to me that none of our classmates had seen. I was special and the need to keep that place in your life outweighed any overdue assignments I had. Priorities, am I right?

We didn’t talk for the rest of the day or a few days after that. I knew what that empty feeling in my chest was. You were missing. We still sat near each other, what were we supposed to do? Change our unassigned assigned seats? Head spinning and ears ringing, I gave you a note crumpled and damp from the unyielding grip I had on it. I remember it very clearly. It wrote: ‘I’m so sorry for what I said. I crossed a line and made an awful ‘joke’ about something I really had no business speaking about. I’m sorry that I upset you. I just want you to know that I truly am sorry.’ It’s not really a great apology, but I was 17–I hadn’t apologized for much at that time and I didn’t really know what “accountability” was. But by some miracle you read the note and started talking to me again and you never stopped talking to me. And since then I’ve never stopped loving you.”

When my friends were focussing on building their career, I waited for them with love, support and warmth.

But this version of the story will not be accepted by anyone so I sit here narrating the stupidity of my life and I know my future self will regret committing this sin of love.

×∞ Adin

15 February 2021

painted silver skin

faces plastered,

atop a grin

barefoot, the silver caked

on concrete roads

blackened and baked

the knives twirled and glinted

the scarred arms

my mind imprinted

twelve hours you stand

bathed in red light

tin can in hand

empty stomach, empty can

our worlds a line

between street and van

another life we could have known

but as I sit in safety

three knives are thrown

they sparkle in the humid air

threatening life

and yet you dare

as I live in comfort,

you perform, juggle.

as I go to school,

your food is a struggle.