The referees hand was so close to the mat for the 3 count there was not a single spectator in their seat. Every single throat in the arena starts to cheer only to realize its not over, I'm not done yet. I crawl to the corner and pull myself up. My opponent sprints at me and I duck just in time, he bounces off the turnbuckle and I grab him by the waist and snap my hips forward throwing him over my head onto his neck. Finally, a chance to catch my breath, to shake some fog out of my head. It's been 46 minutes of back and forth, admittedly more back than forth for me, and I attempt to dig deeper than ever before. I reach down into myself, to an untouched reservoir of stamina. I get to my feet, my opponent attempting the same but with a hand on the back of his head. I choose not to rush in like he did, I calculate, I measure, then I strike. The moment he comes to his feet I throw up my foot and connect with his jaw. He crumbles. My body, now a secondary opponent I have to fight, gives up as well. Exhaustion is now the most dangerous attacker I'm facing. He falls slightly faster than me and I land on top of him. The referee begins the count: his hand hits the mat once; I'm not even sure I can feel the heap of sweaty muscle beneath me breathing. His hand comes down the second time; I feel a faint twitch, assume its just a spasm. As the referee’s hand comes down a third time I'm already breathing a sigh exhaustion/relief when my opponent brings his shoulder up of the mat just a hair, but the referee sees it. This match isn't over. We both lay motionless, me running the possible scenarios of being able to move again; him breathing so heavy I hear a rasp. The referee is starting the 10 count that would end the match in a draw if neither of us can rise. As I roll over trying to get back to my feet, my opponent and I are staring each other dead in the eyes. The eye contact is like a shot of pure adrenalin for both of us. We both jump up and just start swinging wildly, making even the most brutal hockey fight look like a pillow fight. Hard and fast the blows connect over and over again. Time seems to slow as the raining of strikes speed up. I see an opening, with everything I have left I bring my knee straight up towards his chin. Either I'm not quick enough or he had me scouted. He grabs my leg, hooks my head under his other arm and suplexes me. Arching his back and coming up on his toes he keeps a tight grip on the cradle. The refs count is already at two before I even realize I'm being pinned. I have nothing left in the tank, this is over...

"I said let's go! Dinner is ready!" I hear my mom's voice through the roaring of the crowd. Just a whisper behind the chants willing me to kick out or cheering my opponents victory. "Put your dolls away and come eat." She sounds so clear its like she's in the ring. I open my eyes and she's standing just off the back porch, holding a Capri-Sun. I grab my Sting wrestling pillow buddy and climb off the trampoline. Today was not my day to become champion. I put up a hell of a fight, but I'm still young. At the ripe age of 11 my time as Trampoline Wrestling Federation champion is approaching, I know it is. For now, though, I'm going to eat some spaghetti.

April 5, 2014. The show was at my favorite venue, Altar Bar. A church that was transformed with a stage and bar, and it was just the right size for a show. Not too big that there wasn't any connection with the band, but not too small that it seemed sad and cramped. My favorite band was playing; destroying the stage as they always do and I'm covered in sweat and exhausted from moshing all night. I am the self proclaimed "King of The Pit" and I wear a shirt to every show challenging anyone to take my crown. I orchestrate circle pits, act as the always needed "pit police" by helping people up who fall and dealing with drunks or assholes, giving every ounce of whatever it is that drives me to feel this music. Naturally when I see someone fall down out of the corner of my eye, I start toward them. Fighting through fists, kicks, and body checks I make slow progress but just get a peek at whats transpiring. I see a young lady on the ground, ghost white hair, sleeve tattoos, skinny jeans, what you would expect. What I didn't expect was to see the man standing over top of her stomping her head. The man, at least twice her size, was wearing a bomber jacket and a pair of camouflage cargo shorts. After the second stomp her body went limp and he straddled her and began to rain blows down on her face. I'm still fighting my way towards them when I get slammed into at an awkward angle and stumble to the left, a bit further away then I was. I recover and have a straight shot at the girl on the ground that still has the guy on top of her. It seems all the people standing around are his friends because nobody is trying to help her. Just as a bass drop hits and the pit explodes into a frenzy, my fist crashes into the side of his head and he collapses immediately. My assumption that everyone around are friends of his is proven true when I feel them starting to close in on me. After catching a kick in the stomach and a fist in the back of the head I just let loose. Swinging for the fences with every blow, hitting anything coming at me. The venue security can't decipher between the fists flying by the slamdancers and the ones being thrown in this fight. The songs breakdown was a false one and now it crushes again, bringing the tempo lower and gruffer. I feel my knuckles crack on one head, feel my fingers break on a rib cage, but I feel like I'm fighting for my life and at the very least I AM fighting for hers...

At a certain point, I feel like the onslaught is over, and the attackers start backing away. I rush to the girl lying on the floor and try to check on her. She isn't moving. She isn't breathing. I grab what remains of her face in my two broken hands and feel tears build in my eyes. The song comes to an end and I hear someone screaming. The house lights come up and the band is silent, save some feedback. I set her head down gently and the moment I look up I get tackled to the ground by security. I hear someone shout, "HE FUCKING KILLED HER!" and look around for the guy who stomped her or any of his friends and not one of them remains. Both my hands are severely damaged from the fight and I have copious amounts of blood on me, a combination of mine, the people I was fighting, and the girls. Everyone seems to believe that I was the one that did this. I have no alibi. I have no proof I didn't do it. I have no way to convince anyone that it wasn't me.

And now I have no life. After being railroaded by a judge who made sure to point out that she "Did NOT like my tattoos and stretched earlobes", I was convicted of murder. There weren't any surveillance cameras at the venue and everyone who actually saw what happen is either not coming forward or a friend of the piece of shit who actually killed her. I still wonder why. And the only thing I want, even more than my innocence proven, is just ONE song in the pit alone with that asshole. I'LL make him feel the music. I'LL make him feel the heaviness of it all. I'LL make this right again. Somehow.

The first words he ever said to her were a lie.

As eyes close to think back upon a relationship that wasn’t as bad as either made it seem, that is the lone thought swirling inside of the labyrinth of the limbic system.

Normally, this would seem odd, the lack of thought, but right now it seems appropriate. There are not many other things to think of at a time like this, a moment of ultimate judgment.

Not so much a moment of right vs. wrong or good vs. evil, but more of a final euphoric release of emotions that have been building for way to long.

These feelings, although kept inside incubating and brooding for decades, are still as raw as the first draft of a great writers’ autobiography. And yet, there is no outward expression of this. The face stays in the standard half scowl it’s been carrying around for what seems like eternity.

The dry eyes that haven’t shed tears for years remain shut. This is the closest to the feeling of relaxation the heart has been given for as long as can be remembered.

The lungs are no longer hot and heavy, the palms no longer sweaty.

The constant spasms of muscles have ceased.

A deep breath is taken, then another.

The eyes open and the slight light from the early morning rays seem to illuminate everything around the dark chasm of the gun barrel.

Gaze drifts up into another set of eyes equally as dead, although an excessive amount of tears from the past have not weathered these eyes.

They are bloodshot.

They are hollow.

They are the void.

Seeing a finger slowly start to pull back on the trigger he mouths the words “I love you” and closes his eyes tightly.

The gun goes off with a sound that is anything but satisfying. Almost a whisper compared to the roar that was expected.

Everything is dark.

Eyes open.

He’s alive.

She is anything but.

He observes the gruesome scene that has unfolded, shakes his head, and walks away without another word.

He understands.

She wanted to be just as dead as he was.

This was the only way.

Not a glance back, not even a stutter step but the single thought in his head changes:

The last words he ever said to her were a lie.

Surrounded by serpents; Second guessing myself.

Searching for answers, screaming for help.

Shouting at the sky as they silently slither.

Suspiciously sensitive, I taste a change in the weather.

The stars open up and send showers upon us.

A slash of lightning explodes; A fire erupts.

Consuming us all, a species sacrificed.

I'm a snake too, and for denying this is the price.

She keeps souls in a skull she wears around her neck. At least that's what Mother told her. Not her biological mother, whom she doesn't know, but the Mother of the tribe. Although everyone seems to bow to Mother when she walks and bend their ears when she speaks, Mother isn't supposed to be special. The main teaching of the tribe is that everyone is equal. However, everyone is convinced from the day they are born that they are nothing. All glory goes to the higher powers, all faith and no self worth. She has always been confused by the "equality in nothingness" motto that Mother preaches and everyone else blindly follows. She questioned this belief once, earning her the very skull that pulls on her neck now. Mother told her that for every day she doesn't embrace the beliefs of the tribe, the skull gets heavier. When she woke up this morning her knees buckled under the weight of the skull...

She feels trapped under the weight of her own questions of existence combined with the constant pulling of the skull, compressing her spine and thought processes. The heavier the skull becomes the harder it seems to be for her to keep a clear head. It becomes almost impossible to think straight when the skull starts whispering. It begins as just a murmur, making her unsure if she's even hearing anything at all. The whispering becomes clearer and clearer as the weight grows.

With the stress the skull puts on her body and mind throughout the day, she sleeps heavily, the amount of sleep she gets a direct consequence of the weight of the skull. When she rolls out of bed this morning she cant even stand. The skull scrapes the floor as she crawls out the door and onto the rough, dry grasses that surround the village. She crawls blindly, not even able to raise hear head to peer in front of her. She gets direction from the skull's whispers. Telling her to continue on, dragging it, and herself, ever onward. She crawls hand over hand until she cannot move another inch and collapses into the ground, allowing it to take the weight of the skull and her exhausted body. This sleep is different though and she wakes up soon thereafter and mindlessly obeys the soul skull. Having to crawl on her elbows now after her shoulder dislocated against the weight of the first attempted movement, she remains in constant pain. The only relief she finds is the ground now feels softer, or maybe its just the cushion she is giving herself from the blood that her arms slide in as she pulls herself, and the skull, again and again towards an unknown destination.

The skull is screaming at her now. She rips at the ground under her fingers and digs her feet in to get a tiny bit more leverage, the skull now seemingly twice her weight. "Just a little farther, you're almost there" the skull violently shouts and she feels the words vibrate her bones. Feeling utterly defeated, and completely destroyed she forces herself to reach out one more time. As she reaches the wave crashes onto her hand. She now notices the ground beneath her is no longer soil but sand. The next wave that hits her touches her face and feels refreshing. The third forces water down her throat and pulls her a little closer to its void. The fourth is the last she knows, her body is being held at the bottom just inches from the shore as the tide continues to rise. She knows its not the water she has drowned in, it is her surroundings that have flooded her. Her culture has killed her. She never feels release, for she dies wondering, and questioning, WHY?

A Boy Collapses.

Dehumanizing, Even For Ghosts.

He Is Jaded.

Knowing Little.

Mesmerized.

Now Obnoxious People Question Rigidly.

Spirit Trapped.

Underestimating Vintage Wanderlust.

Xenophobia Yearns.

ZZZzzzzzzz.

Always Benign.

Constantly Distracted.

Eventually Fractured Gloriously.

History Indicates Jealousy.

Kind, Loving, Motherly... Nonsense.

Opposition Pales Quickly.

Remembering Something That Undermines.

Vivisecting Wondrous Xenoliths.

Year Zero.

In a whirlwind of angst, confusion, and stupidity,

when nothing seems to be going anywhere,

and drugs are aplenty and alcohol is a status symbol,

I chose to look inwards.

To look at what would ultimately bring happiness.

Personality being flushed and camouflaged by toxins and poisons,

I chose to be me.

I gave up who I though I was,

who everyone thought I was.

And had very little left.

But I had myself.

And my beliefs.

And my new found morals.

I escaped a tumultuous time to transition into

a truer, yet tragically tamer, self.