How can I live on an empty heart?

A car with no fuel,

The wind with no trees to travel through.

The stairs I climb, reach no where,

In circles I am led.

Round and round, the shadows take me.

Through thicket and forest, 

They show no signs of weary.

I am dragged through thorns that bear no roses.

No feather grazes my cheek,

No kiss to touch my lips,

Only life's arrows meet my skin.

How can I live on an empty heart?

Easy, I get dragged.

#poetry #pain #love #loss #empty

Today I found a kitty. She’s so adorable. She has black fur and green eyes. She walked across the path in front of me.

“Hello, kitty!” I said, and I scooped her into my arms. She meowed and clawed my arm, but I was strong! I didn’t let go.

I brought Miss Kitty home with me. She yowled the whole time, but I clamped a hand over her mouth and she made no noise. I think she might have bit my hand though. There was blood coming from a scratch on my arm, and blood coming from the scrape on my hand. Stupid cat. Oh no, I said a no-no word. Mama says I’m not supposed to say those. But Mama can’t hear my thoughts. Ha, ha. I laugh aloud.

“Ha ha ha!” I sneak Miss Kitty up to my room, and sit her in my closet. Then I shut the door. She can’t get out, now.

I can hear her clawing at the wood. It’s no use. The wood’s too thick. Even I can’t claw through it, and I’m strong. That’s what Mama says. That I’m strong. I run downstairs.

“Hon, What did you do to your arm?”

“I fell,” I lied. Mama says I shouldn’t lie. But she’s allergic to cats. She won’t let me keep Miss Kitty if she knows.

“Let me get you cleaned up.” She kissed my scratches, wiped them off, then puts a bandaid on the worst of them. I love my mommy, even when she hits me. Even when she comes home and staggers around the house screaming bad words. She’s never said stupid, though. Once I repeated a word she said at school and the teacher yelled at me.

Fuck. That word. I was angry! I’d gotten a bad grade on a test. That word is what Mama says when she’s angry. So I said it.

I walk upstairs to Miss Kitty. I get into the closet with my doll clothes. Kitty hisses. I hiss back.

“I’m your mama. You have to act like a proper kitty.” She still glared at me. I pulled out a frilly pink dress. It would look pretty on Miss Kitty. Hey, that rhymes! I’m learning about rhymes in school. Miss Kitty claws at me, so I pin her arms down so she doesn’t rip my pretty dress for her. I shove the dress on her.

“See, Miss Kitty? Isn’t that nice?” She yowls. It doesn’t sound like she likes it. I frown. “You should appreciate what your mama gets for you.” She doesn’t make a sound. I get some glue and glue a pink bow to her head. I’m still pinning her down. I get some heavy boxes and put them over her paws. She hisses. I stick my tongue out at her.

“Be a good little kitty witty!” I say, and I poke her head. Her fur is soft.

“Dinner, Annabelle!” I close the closet door and head downstairs.

“What is it?”

“Mac-n-cheese! Your favorite!” I smile.

“Yay!” Maybe I could sneak some up to Miss Kitty. She probably likes mac-n-cheese, too.

I eat a whole plate then shove a handful in my pocket. I dance upstairs.

“Miss Kitty?” I whisper. “I have dinner!” No response. I open the closet door and lift the heavy boxes off of her feet. She springs up, hisses at me, then licks her feet. I lick mine too, and laugh. I take out the handful of mac-n-cheese and Miss Kitty sniffs it, then looks away.

“You have to eat your food,” I say grumpily. I grab her and force her mouth open and shove the food in. That’s how my mom fed me when I didn’t want to eat. She makes a choking sound but eventually the food goes down. Her green eyes close. She’s sleepy. I’m sleepy too. I yawn and shut the closet door.

The dark is full of spooky shadows, and clawing sounds from the closet. Has the monster gotten Miss Kitty? I have to check. I turn on the light and look in at Miss Kitty. She’s asleep. Okay, good. The monster hasn’t gotten her. I turn off the light and climb back into bed. Finally, my eyes close.

Bright light shines into my eyes in the morning. I sit up and walk into Miss Kitty’s room. There are little brown clumps and a yellow stain. I pick up the brown clumps.

“Bad kitty!” I say. “Poopie goes in the toilet!” I throw the poop in the potty and then I flush it.

Whoosh! It makes the funnest sounds. I go back to my room and slap kitty. She’s been very bad.

“Bad girl!” She hisses and tries to bite my hand. I slap her again. That’s what Mama does to me when I’m bad. I have to teach Miss Kitty a lesson.

“Breakfast!” Calls my mother. I can tell by her voice that her alerts? Alleged? Allergies? Yes, allergies. Her allergies are bad again. I wonder if Miss Kitty has allergies. Probably not. She’s a cat.

I bounce down the steps. It makes my butt hurt, but it’s fun. Hee hee, I said the b-word.

Today is Sun-day, but I don’t see any sun. Maybe it’s hiding.

I eat my waffle. Mama always makes waffles on Sun-day.

Miss Kitty is up in my room. I grab her and put her on my lap, but she hisses and squirms, so I grab her neck. I saw Mama do this to Daddy once so that he would stop moving. But they took him away in a black bag. I won’t let them take Kitty. Kitty is twitching all over the place, so I squeeze harder.

“Stop moving, Miss Kitty. It’s not good for you.” She doesn’t listen, so I squeeze harder. Eventually, she is still. I move her around so she is sitting in my lap, and then I pet her.

“Yay, good kitty witty!” I exclaim.

She’s so well behaved now.

Oh no, someone’s coming. But Miss Kitty is so comfy on my lap that I don’t want to move her.

Her dull green eyes no longer blink.

Mama comes in,

And screams.

I woke up at three o’clock. My phone was too bright and It made me nostalgic for a good old analog alarm clock. I ate too much take out, it was creeping up my throat and singeing my insides. I live alone so there is no reason to wear pants. I haven’t had anyone in my life for some time now. They all seem to leave. Go somewhere, do something better. That was me for a while, so I dont blame them, just miss having a voice of reason around. My therapist says I should go out more. See more. Do more. Experience life instead of just watch it scroll by in my timeline feed. I tried that, I did all of that. I spent years going back and forth across the country. Backpack and bicycle. Helmet and med bag. Sure there is more to see, there is always more to see. I guess I just pay the guy to hang out with me. To talk to me. To take an interest in what I’m saying. He says I’ve isolated myself from my friends and family. That the quirks that I find appealing are demonstrative of disassociate disorders. I’m paying him remember? I don’t spend half my weekly paycheck on the guy for his medical opinions. I just have a lot to say, things only someone your paying would listen to. I had to find some one to talk to about this. Someone that wouldn’t understand, someone that would bother, someone that would try and find answer; or at least feign to.

I woke up at three o’clock and made coffee. I sat at my kitchen table and I thumbed through a 1995 edition of a sears catalog. The same one from when I was a kid an thought Santa Claus could really bring me anything from his book if I just said please and didn’t start any more fights at school or cleaned my room and got good grades. I remember circling water guns and gaming consoles. I sat decided that if I had these things, I would have friends. Just like in the commercials. I never got the consoles or water guns. I never got those friends either. Good thing. For them.

I drink too much coffee. I don’t see a cardiologist, but if I did I’m sure they’d say i drink too much coffee. I think its more a security blanket. The few memories I have of my family, all of them involve coffee. I would wake up early and catch my grandmother on the front porch. She would watch bats eat breakfast while she sipped her black coffee. She understood me. She never said anything like the sort, but I could tell. She knew I was going to be different. That something just outside the realm of knowing was in my future.

I woke up at three oclock and I stayed awake till seven that evening. I listened to my fire alarm chirp rudely every four minutes as I stared into the void of my cabinets. I felt like someone was playing a cruel joke on me. That I was the butt of their laughter. I also felt like I was participating so that was good enough. I thought about trying to go back to sleep. To wander back through my shit hole apartment, a refurbed motel on Route 66, till the four steps brought me back to bed. That doesn’t suit me so well tonight. There is someone here. Someone is listening to me. My therapist is gonna retire in Florida with this one.

I lit a candle. I only had one of those mason jar ones, half price from the craft store. Ordered it online. I should go out more. There are people who might find me interesting, if I meet them on familiar turf and only let them see the layers that suit the need. I had to use a piece of dry spaghetti to light it, but I got it done.

As I looked around, I saw no reason to believe that I was anything but alone. I had no roommates and the apartments near by were empty. I guess there is only a certain type of person who finds this pod living comfortable enough to call home. It was a twinge in the mind, something like that, I don’t pay my therapist for his vocabulary, but he had some variety of fanciful words to fixate himself and make him go, mmmm. I made more coffee, a second cup to suit the visitor. Kept it black. I pulled the chair across from me out, just enough. I sat and cradled the warmth radiating off my mug. I just listened. For four minutes I had peace. Then the chirp reminded me to remove and put away the fire alarm.

There was just silence and a cold breeze for hours. Time moved without consent, as it does, but without a clock to measure it, hours were mere minutes. I asked a for a name, and it was silence. I sipped my coffee and gave my own. My name is Thomas Stonewell. Silence spoke nothing in return. Still, in the fragments of reality that still wander this mind of mine, I know that I am not alone.

—

My therapist says that its not my apartment that is haunted, that its my mind. That I’m on this hermit syndrome kick and the way to break out is to explore the world outside; more importantly the people that occupy it. I care little for them. I care about who occupies my apartment.

I decided that even without a name, or a fancy degree, whomever visits when the night is deep and silent, has a better sense of understanding me than my former therapist. Even if the cold winds I feel are simply the frigid return of my exhaled breath stirring in the cigarette smoke.

—

I got more candles. Went to the store and everything. Not to overcome a hurdle, or confront any hypothesis presented by my therapist. I just chose not to wait the two days for shipping. I work as copy editor. Ive never met my boss or coworkers. I don’t even know how many of us there are. I just get my assignments on Monday, most are due by Wednesday but the bigger ones have till Friday at noon. It was now the early hours of Saturday so I had some time. Time for an interview. I slept most of the day. So that I could be awake at three. I made earl grey for my guest, two creams and two sugars. It tastes the best that way. I kept my coffee black.

I was met with more silence and cold air. That was, until I extinguished the candle on the table. It’s absence allowed the void of darkness to engulf the chair now occupied by my guest. He, I shall call him HE, for there was no name or way to distinguish anything further about him. Blame the patriarchy. He sat in darkness, veiled in fabric of stars and night sky.

We sat, I sipped my coffee.

I woke up at the kitchen table, the morning light scattered on the old tiles of my apartment. My mug still full. His was turned over on the coaster.

———

My mother called while I was in the shower. I muted her call so the music would play. She would leave a voicemail. That she did. My sister in law was going into labor. She was two weeks past due. I needed to get to the hospital to meet them. There was something else in the message. Something in the buzzing of dead space between her syllables of hysteria. The mug overturned. The buzzing. The fog in the mirror. A blurred pale figure reflected in its opaque glare. More than just my own. A bitter wind blew past and the mirror turned back to its silver sheen. I was alone. The mug shattered and the tea inside ruined my favorite table runner.

#fiction #stream #thoughts #depression #journal

The nice lady in kindergarten asked us to draw our best friend.

Tom drew Will. Anna drew Flora. Hannah drew her big brother. Peter drew his dad.

I drew Teddy.

Tom looked at my drawing and said we were supposed to draw a friend, not a favorite toy. Will laughed. Nice lady told me to try again.

They called Teddy ugly.

His fur was gray, the buttons of his tiny sweater falling off. He had only one eye, one slightly burnt ear, and the red heart he used to hold was torn, leaving only threads and cotton wool behind.

But Teddy’s really pretty. How could they all not see? He’s prettier than Anna, who everyone says is prettiest in class. His sweater is more fashionable than nice lady’s summer dress and big sparkly earrings!

Teddy spends time with me. His eye shines and reflects my face like a funny mirror. His paws hug me when no one else does. His ears listen to my trouble which adults don’t understand.

Dad tried to take him away from me, but Teddy stayed like a great friend. He threw Teddy to the angry dogs and tried to flush him in the toilet. He hid Teddy on the highest shelf and dropped him from the window. Once he set Teddy’s ear on fire. He says Teddy doesn’t let me move on. He says he’s scary to have around. He says Teddy’s making me crazy.

But Teddy survived it all and always came back. He told me not to worry. He said Dad’s just angry because he cannot hear him. I can understand. If I couldn’t hear Teddy, I’d be angry too. I’d miss him a lot, just like Dad does.

I wish Dad could hear Teddy. But he doesn’t believe when I tell him to try. Teddy says it’s an adult problem. If that’s true, I don’t want to grow up. I would never want to lose my best friend.

Once it was raining, and Dad took me to the graveyard. I jumped through the puddles, having lots of fun, but he told me to be quiet. We walked through a small alley under a pretty tree with red flowers.

Dad kneeled next to a stone with candles on it. Why was he staring at it like that?

I tried to put together the letters, like the nice lady taught us.

T-E-D-D-Y B-R-O-O-K-S D-I-E-D 18 A-P-R-I-L 2015

Dad pulled me closer and told me a story about my little brother who died in a fire. All of his toys burnt, except one tiny bear.

Teddy said I’ll join him one day too.

Loved my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Brown. Good woman. Never said a harsh word to anyone. Pity I never learned that from her.

Never meant to see Thad hurt. Wasn’t my fault, yet it was. Funny how things come and go around. Playground was my responsibility as a safety-guard, but I had to go to the bathroom and left another kid in charge. That one pushed Thad off the steps. Thad lost an eye. Still say it’s my fault.

There was Annette in seventh grade, my first crush. Only thing was, she was more interested in Paul, the school jock. Got over it soon enough.

So much in my life that went by. It’s like every day, every single thing that went on was brand new, like an experience to learn from and be grateful for, though some of it was pure crap, if you get my meaning.

Learned a lot, messed up a lot; guess they kind of go hand-in-hand, like good and bad, right and wrong and that.

Went through a ton of jobs, mostly labor work. Never got the education most do. Third grade was good back then, but the Depression was purely hell on my folks and me, neighbors, too. But I got that education good enough. I call it life. Living it. Figured I might as well make the most of it. Just me and me won’t get too many second chances.

Things went okay until the war. Ended up in a place called Okinawa. What a mess that was. Fighting and dying everywhere. Crawling across a beach being shot at was no picnic, I tell you. Somehow, we managed to get to where we needed to be. Though there were thousands who never did. Was I scared. You bet’cha. Hell, I was seventeen, but I felt like thirty when it was over. War can age you faster than you like.

After the war, came home, only to visit my daddy’s grave. Another loss among many. My momma died almost a year to the day he did. I had a brother three years older than me, but he was killed at Pearl Harbor. That left me. Alone. And it’s one thing to be alone, another to be lonely. I guess then, I was a little of both.

Sold the house and land, wasn’t much, packed up what little I had and made my way across the country, I reckon, to try and find myself. Sixteen years of moving around, meeting different people, though some today would call them low-life’s, but I learned how to live on my own the best way I could.

Met a girl named Aggie, ten years my senior, I was maybe thirty-six then, took me in to her life and we did okay. Six years. She was a bartender and that’s no easy job for a woman. That came crashing down when the bar was robbed, and she was killed. That hurt. Bad. Another person I was attached to, gone. I decided then, I wouldn’t get serious again, makes the pain less painful.

Time rolled on as they say, doing construction and one day I was in an accident.

Scaffolding broke loose. Broke my back, both legs and my left arm. Company paid the bill, but I couldn’t walk, and if I can’t walk, I can’t do the only thing I knew I could do. Things weren’t good. What money I had saved was thinning out and when you hit sixty-three, not many places look at you as someone they want to invest in.

And what with all the changes that have been going on, stuff getting expensive—hell, I thought the 20’s were tough—’86 was a bitch. Let me tell you, but I won’t.

Nothing too much I can say I’d change as nothing can be. Be nice though. Be nice to win the lottery, but that won’t happen either.

Looking out my window, seeing the sun go down, means right close to the end of another day. You know more than likely this whole time I’ve been talking, probably 5,000 died and 10,000 were born.

Only thing for sure is that one time I’ll go to sleep and not wake up. Speaking of which; goodnight, goodbye, see you later, maybe.