i can't afford

a private hell.

my hell is

a public bathroom

with no locks

where travelers come and go:

i smear my shit on the walls,

like letters on a computer screen

hoping to deter them

but it only seems to attract more

like flies.

they gawk at

my display,

some even call it art,

as i smear my innards on the walls.

i can't help it;

my innermost thoughts must always be

thrust out

like vomit

after a long night

even when they'd be better left

unwritten.

my mind, like my body,

must shed its waste,

but it is not flushed so easily

down the toilet.

my pipes

are clogged,

choking on filth.

trash

with nowhere to go

simply makes its home

wherever it is convenient:

collecting

in frantic internet posts

that are quickly buried,

filling the gaps in my brain

until it begins to rot,

eating away my memories,

just to sustain its malformed flesh.

i can't afford

a private hell.

mine is a public bathroom,

where everyone comes

to dump their waste,

here and then gone.

yet i remain:

i haven't finished

dumping my load yet.

I sat on the edge of the fountain, surreptitiously glancing left and right, awaiting the moment he'd come into view with his kind eyes and shy smile. The minutes passed, an hour came and went but I did not leave. There are those who might say a higher power was at work. For he did arrive, running, sweat dripping, shocked to see I was waiting still, smiling, perchance, already loving.

And we lived happily ever after - as all the difficult times entwined with a multitude of shared joyful moments, each woven tightly into the fabric of our life together.

Knowing you, there will be an excuse for your absence.

Knowing me, I will accept your excuse even when it has been the hundredth time that you are not here.

Knowing you, you will twist my words even though I thought them unbreakable in their meaning this time. Yet here you are, bending them until you break my heart in the process.

And knowing me, when the breaking happens I’ll be alone, wailing to the shower head because it is the safest place for my tears. For no one can hear you when shower’s on, and I lie to myself so I can ache.

And knowing you, the end of us will be as quick as the beginning and you will dig our grave with a swiftness I keep forgetting you possess and you’ll laugh at what we were.

And knowing me, I’ll actually laugh with you. Because how can you not laugh at the absurdity of how your heart is being buried like a murder victim: quickly and without remorse.

And it is dusk somewhere, the sun will set on our love and I will look out in awe at nature poetically putting an end to our time together.

And knowing you, you will not even look up to see it.

I'm standing on my patio, one hand on the railing, the other hand holding an empty popsicle stick, watching dropped popsicle ice on the concrete transform into rapidly spreading pools of water. The sun is warm, the water and sky are both blue in the distance. Behind me on the table is a yellow collander, bursting with green and red, picked from the garden below. My hands smell like arugula.

This moment, this little universe of watching ice melt on concrete, somehow encompasses everything and nothing all at once.

The ice is fast disappearing and the thought that catches in my head is soon I won't be here anymore.

Not here as in the patio, not here as in the home where I did all my growing up, but here as in myself. Myself today, myself exactly where I am. One foot in childhood and the other in adulthood. About to take the other step.

Fear and joy are there, at the edges of my consciousness. But I can't feel either in this moment of today. I am just here, just waiting, just being. Watching the melting ice.

"But real love," she says,

"is when you'd

sew your skin into

the skin of your lover to

become one.

If I could cut off

my arm

from the elbow

and cut yours off as well

and join them together

as one limb, I'd go for

it. I'd then follow

with the other

arm, then the legs,

and finally the chests and

the foreheads

and lips.

We'd die of course, but that

would be the

beauty of it. We'd die

together, as one.

We'd become a mass of filth

and puss and

rot and

eventually melt into a single

substance.

That would be heaven.

You'd do

that for me, wouldn't you,

darling?"

Lying in bed,

he removed the pillow

from his face. It did nothing

to silence her. Of course

it did nothing.

Because she was not real,

only in his head.

They were already one

and the same

and as one-and-the-same

as they could get.

"C'mon already!" she

shouted. "Say that

you love me too!"

"Uh, I do," he mumbled,

a hand rubbing

circles at his

right temple

"Of course you do!" she

said. "However, last morning

when you fell

asleep

somehow, for some

unthinkable reason, your

dreams were not of me. I don't

understand how

such a tragedy could

have

occurred.

It's hell!

The simple idea of separation

between the two

of us is hell, darling, and I

don't wanna abandon you

in hell.

Don't worry. I'll keep you

awake. Dreams aren't

good for you.

I'll keep them away

and myself close."

He covered his face

with the

pillow again

and held his breath

She went on, "You know

what I dreamed last

time I was

asleep?

Of you, of course!

I dreamed that you were

so small and so

cute

and I could hold you

in my palm

and play with you so nicely

and squeeze you

all over

and, my ultimate fantasy, chew

on you!

Oh yes! I put you whole

in my mouth and

bit down on your chewy

cuteness.

Then I bit you in the middle

and tore your

torso off

and swallowed your bottom

half completely.

I came at that moment. Yes,

it was a very wet

dream.

I kept the top half of you

in my palms

and watched your beautiful

guts ooze out.

Ah, they were like swollen

spider legs. And I

made you walk

and crawl on them all

over my body.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap,

your hot gut-legs across

my sweaty skin went

up and down,

up and down.

Oh, and I swear the only

bad thing about

this dream was that it

ended too early. Just

when I was about to

sew your guts

on a spot

between my breasts.

But what am I saying? The right

time for that dream

to end would've

been NEVER!!!

Right, darling? Right?"

He tossed the pillow

away

and stood

Walked out of the

bedroom

and into the kitchen

"Darling!" she shouted

in his head. "What do

you think

of my dream?

Most wholesome

thing ever, right

darling?

Riiiiight?"

He opened a cupboard

and reached for

a little box of

sleeping pills

Opened it

"Darling?

What are you doing? What's

that?"

He poured a few pills

into his palm,

about six,

and swallowed them quickly

and placed his head

sideways under the

tap to suck at the

stream of water as he

turned it on

"What silly behavior,

darling," she said. "Those

things will

make you sleepy.

It... It wouldn't be

a problem if

you'd dream of me, but...

What if you don't?

Can you imagine? What if

you go to sleep

for hours and hours

and... Ah, I don't even

want to think about

it!"

He went back into

the bedroom

"Darling,

get those things out

of your lovely

stomach now! C'mon, let's

vomit together!"

But the only thing he

could do now

was start crying

and throw his numb body

forward

like jumping into a pool

so he could land with

the head into the

corner of

the nightstand

It was a fairly

loud bang

and he stayed down

lying on the floor, luckily

on a carpeted portion of it

He was on his side

so it was alright

even if he vomited in his

sleep

The sleep didn't

come yet

but something better

came.

A silence so sweet and

so mercifully tender

that his numb face

turned into a smile as

the eyes closed

It'll be alright

She will come back

by the time

he'd wake up

but she

wasn't always

so bad

Sometimes she

was

actually quite all right

Some time ago

when he worked up

the courage

to tell his

father about her,

the father said,

"Meh, that's nothing,

try living with

a real woman and then

see what it's

like to go mad for

real."

Of course

father was drunk more often

than not

so he didn't know

much about

women that were real

and women that were real

only to certain men. He

had his own

demons to live with

Everyone must

have those

else they're either

a boring saint who spends

a lifetime meditating

in caves

or not a complete person

to begin with

Yeah... demons

complete us

as humans

Why should one seek

to live without

them?

***

INSTAGRAM:

https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/

You were like a sunset

clouds gather in the sky's embrace

they leave a trail of kisses

when they fades

along the darkness

I could've leave a trail

for you

to follow

If you ever looked back

If you ever decided to look

back to me

back to where I was

You paint my sky in pink hue,

in blues and orange,

you left

while fading along the night

the sweet scented milk and honey

flowing in,

scattering

from behind you,

as I gaze at your back

That small back

who tried carrying the world,

the burden I didn't know

while following your footsteps,

while gazing,

at those long hair I always braided

freely fluttering

I sometimes catch the ends

brush it on my lips

ever so slightly

briefly

so fleetingly

and maybe

if you ever noticed

would you look back?

Your creamy little voice,

cheerfully greeting me

made my ears warm

and long for more,

how I wished

to hear my name

when it lingers

when you utter

so lovingly

I shouldn't have ignored

I shouldn't have made you choose him

you could've choose me

only me

only me

only.

me.

If you could be

So look behind you,

I'm here

still craving the warmth

in your embrace

how small,

how small the embrace you give

and I fit perfectly in it

It was the world you gave me

how small the world we own

i could've made it my own

Your eyes

it shines

it resembles the moon

serene in darkness,

still bright

and I crave those lights you gather

i see...

I wouldn't dare let it shed

a single cry

a tear

a sorrow

for those things

are mine to bear

I couldn't ignore this feeling

any longer

I couldn't ignore the way

you made my heart flail

while falling deeper

and I stop

still looking at your back

and stayed here

hoping

with the dreams

to cover you in my arms

I'll wait

and I'll stay here

but

I thought

i thought I could wait

but

you never once looked back

while you still walked the road

in straight line,

look back

I'm here

I could tell a story about a boy and a girl. I could give them names like Rudy and Hope. I could make it a love story. I could set it in any big city. Rudy might own a hot dog cart and Hope could be attending a nearby university. Hope might walk by Rudy’s food cart every day on her way to school, smelling the delicious dogs cook, yet unable to try one what with tuition, and books, and living. Rudy might also have noticed Hope, in which case he would likely keep a hopeful eye out for her daily passes-by. It could be that he has learned at about what time she will show, and on which days. But how to get her attention? How to make her notice a lowly street cart vendor?

With those thoughts in mind he might begin to shout-out, mainly to her, but using the metropolitan throngs for a disguise. He could find the courage to hail the passers-by, grabbing for their attention with comedy and innuendo, but mostly with hopes of catching her notice;

”I see you lookin’, and I’m-still-a-cookin’!” He might sing out. Or,

”Right here is the biggest weenie you’ll find between two buns!” Or even,

”They don’t just smell delicious, they also satisfy your wishes!”

Rudy could begin to think of a new one every day, a new line to impress. He might practice these new lines before she arrives, testing their reactions on the passing strangers, only to find that the pickup lines do, indeed, work. He could begin to have so many customers gathered around his cart that he can no longer see Hope when she passes, for he has failed to keep his eye-out, those eyes finding themselves glued to a pickle jar cash register that is filling so fast he cannot take his eyes off of it.

The money in the jar grows so fast, in fact, that Rudy buys another cart, and another, and he pays people to run them all. He teaches them to sing out to the passers-by just as he used to do, and those people are also successful, and their pickle jars fill equally as fast, and he pays them commensurately, fulfilling their dreams as well as his own, yet still his life is incomplete.

And then one day Rudy is sitting on a park bench, listening to his newest employee attract customers when Hope passes on the sidewalk. He jumps to his feet, giving chase! He catches her, and explains how, because of her, he overcame his life-long shyness. How because of her and the hope she supplied him, his pickle jar overflowed, and how he owed that all to her. And he explained that, despite all of the carts he now had, and all of the money, he was still not happy, as there was no one to share his successes with. And he asked her then if she could find it in her heart to love a lowly street cart vendor?

And Hope might see how he loved her. She might be moved by his story. She might even love him back, but does that matter to the reader?

What matters is that it is a simple love story, simply told. A one in a million of love stories told since the dawn of time, no more alike than the others, and no more different. We do not know Rudy, and we cannot know Hope. We cannot know about their race, their culture, their ideals, or their religions. We cannot care about those things, if we are moved to care at all. And if we are moved, then we can only care that they are human, and that they have a story, and that if that story is told in the right way, then we will root for them both. But in truth, we will not even be rooting for them, but for love itself.

So, Donne was right when he said that, “No man is an island, entire of itself.” We are wired to care about mankind, regardless of situations. Knowing this, can diversity in stories matter a whit? No. Diversity is irrelevant. It is the people in the stories that matter, the humanity they express, and the emotion the writer applies to those people that reaches out from the page to touch our hearts.

After my tenth birthday I told my mother I didn't want any more birthday parties. My reasoning was the clean up outweighed any fun that might be had. So, that was that.

Until I turned 16.

The day of my sixteenth birthday, I had a ballet recital. Driving home, my dad got lost (which made no sense to me even if we were in a new place: He had an amazing sense of direction). Anyway, I just laughed it off. I was that dense. We got home, I walked in the door, and SURPRISE! Maybe 50 people in my mom's tiny house and backyard, friends and family from parts of my life that had never before met. It was both wonderful and jarring. Friends from elementary school met friends from high school met friends from my ballet schools met neighbors met family from near and far as well as some business associates of my mom. And a couple of nice guys I'd met on the subway going to dance class (really not sure how they got invited).

I remember a lot of smiles, a lot of hugs and love, catching up with people I hadn't seen in years, amazement at the tent in our backyard as well as my mother's ability to plan the whole thing without me having a clue, and absolute, utter relief that my mom had organized a clean up crew of my closest friends. :-)

A few years later, my dad and stepmom threw me a surprise 21st birthday party. It was the only event my dad ever planned for me and for that reason alone it was memorable. It was also a good time with a lot of family I didn't see regularly, music and dancing, great food and champagne toasts. To top it off, my best friend from high school came. None of my friends really knew my dad since my parents divorced when I was five. Add that he lived in an apartment in a fairly scary building and neighborhood and of course I was shocked, amazed and overjoyed that she came.

That was my last birthday party...although I did plan a small luncheon for my 50th. At a restaurant. It was great: No clean up. Even better? My husband came home early from a business trip in Nepal and surprised me at the restaurant. Best birthday ever. :-)

That punch in the gut feeling that knocks all the air from your lungs and produces the sensation of a rib pirecing both a lung and your heart because you can't breathe and your heart may explode and you may even cry blood because you find out the person you love most in the world, who has always loved life to the fullest, who, well into adulthood, had a child-like view of death as something far off and nebulous, that this happy, joy-filled being suffers so silently you never knew until filling out a doctor's form that he longs to die.

"Are you trying to

kill me?" his mother screamed. "Are

you trying to fucking

kill me!?"

He backed away. "Mom, please."

"Shut up! You brought

a cat. A cat! Of all things. In the house!

Knowing full well

of my allergies. That is a declaration,

young man. A declaration

that speaks

very loud. You are trying

to kill your own mother, you

insane monster!"

An hour later he

was in his room

caressing the cat's head

and back

while it lay on his chest

and purred

"Can you believe her?" he

said to the cat

"Hardly," said the cat. "She was

a monster though. You made

the right choice, baby."

"When I decided to

keep you?" he asked

"Yes," said the cat. "And when

you stabbed her in

the chest. You're such a good boy.

That's why I love you. And

after I help you calm

down you can

drag her body to the

basement. I'll consume it

a bit every day

until there's nothing but

bones and some

guts that you

can flush down a toilet."

"I love you too," he said

***

find me on INSTAGRAM:

https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/