The deepest secret

that I never told

was that I killed a child

when I was thirteen.

She was bright

and dreamed

of space travel

and of inventing fantastic machines.

I yanked her from

her fluffy bed,

dragged her to the living room,

turned on the TV.

I stabbed her eyes

with a steely knife

formed of 

pictures

of sand dunes and 

of tanks exploding.

And I whimpered to her

as darkness

replaced the life that bled from her:

"That is where your daddy is"

I took a gun

and shot her ears

with the cries

of starved children

and the shrieks of vultures

ready to devour.

And I screamed at her

through salty tears:

"It's too late for you to save them!"

Her knees wobbled

somehow still alive

on life support

from the small light of hope

that drove her youthful soul.

And so I mustered

the shred of strength -or fear- left of me,

to explain

in a soft whisper

that some people

lose all hope

that they extinguish their light

entirely.

And at this, her color drained

from red

to white

to blue,

the same colors

as it happens

that her father

could be wrapped in.

I killed a child

when I was thirteen.

I killed a child

and that child was me.

#ProseChallenge #DeepestSecrets

I am afflicted with a certain kind of love

That fills me with a crippling desire to hold her hand,

That convinces me

She is all I need.

And every tender moment shared

pushes me

To work for a future we can share

Together

Where I hold her hand

And finally feel

A warmth that promises to keep the cold away,

A closeness that enriches a drained soul

And a softness that relaxes an exhausted mind

A future together

Where I hold her hand

In the same way

my mind and soul,

March forever, hand in hand,

Down the street of shattered dreams.

Together

I don't want to

dread the day

I tell my family

who I am and

I don't want to

see them view

me differently

because they

are now aware

of something

that has always

been true but

they had never

known because

they assumed

something else

was truth

The angel held the demon all night long.

The demon counted the stars

As the angel sent out his prayer.

The demon began to feel weary

As the angel grasped him closer.

The demon whispered Do not fret,

Then lost his breath.

The sky began to fall.

The trees began to shake.

Out of the chaos and rage, the angel let

A single tear drop.

The angel returned to Hell to tell

The King of Hell

That his brother had fell.

Out of grief and horror, the King of Hell

Traveled the depths of the underground

To find the demon's soul.

Too late, the demon's soul was hidden

Away in Heaven.

Man,

Woman,

Boy,

Girl,

Dude,

Chick,

Guy,

Lady,

Male,

Female;

Human.

Plutopian,

Five-year-old,

Strange creature:

All me.

Just Me.

There is half-made woman on the TV screen,

She feels she is incomplete.

I trace the curls of her hair with my eyes,

Thinking only that she is pretty.

"He's a dude?!"

Erupts from beside me and I am startled.

"She is a woman." I say.

"With a dick!"

I am too shocked to answer properly.

"Unless she's had the surgeries."

The words sound stupid, but I cannot find the ones I am looking for.

"He's a fag!"

Shouting at the television as if they care to hear.

"She's a woman." I repeat.

"Man, you can't even tell!"

Angry, personally offended

And seeing nothing beyond the labels.

My mouth won't open.

I think I have lost or failed somehow.

"That's sick! She's-- He's a fag!"

Childish, but...

The proper pronoun. For just a second.

Have I won after all?

She is a woman.

Forgive me for being morbid, but when I see a young person die of overdose or suicide, I’m muddled, befuddled, troubled.

“Why?” I ask myself. “Why?”

Since I’m well on my way to 70, “young” is a relative term. To me, 30 seems young. Even 40. Or 46.

Consider Philip Seymour Hoffman. Nominated for an Oscar four times. Won in 2006 for “Capote.” Also won a Golden Globe, a Screen Actors Guild Award, BAFTA, multiple Film Critics awards. Plus more. And yet, at age 46, he was found dead in his apartment, with a syringe in his arm — an accidental overdose caused by “acute mixed drug intoxication, including heroin, cocaine, benzodiazepines and amphetamine,” officials said.

“Why?”

You could pick others who died too young or too soon: Amy Winehouse, 27, alcohol poisoning; Kurt Cobain, 27, suicide by a self-inflicted shotgun wound; Janet Joplin, 27, overdose; Jimi Hendrix, 27, asphyxia while intoxicated; Jim Morrison, 27, heroin overdose; John Belushi, 33, drug intoxication; Chris Farley, 33, drug overdose; Marilyn Monroe, 36, acute barbiturate poisoning; Whitney Houston, 48, accidental drowning; Ernest Hemingway, 61, shot himself with his favorite shotgun; Robin Williams, 63, hanged himself with a belt.

“Why?”

It isn’t like I’ve not had suicidal thoughts. We’ve all been pushed to our limits — and beyond. Like Titanic, we’ve hit our iceberg. My iceberg was a “Dear John” letter when I was in Vietnam. The idea of blowing my brains out occurred to me. Turned to God instead. Does that make me weak?

You tell me …

I once knew a young man in his 20s. Tried to commit suicide. Survived. Hugged him. Said I loved him. Cried with him. Told him I’d be there for him. Anytime. Anywhere. Tried to kill himself a second time. Succeeded. I was crushed. Never the same. Felt empty. Lost. Responsible. Eventually, settled down. Evened out. Stabilized. How? Prayer helped. Time, too.

Ultimately, we can’t make life-death decisions for others. It doesn’t work that way. Jesus said we should, “Love one another.” I agree. Jesus loved Judas. Killed himself anyway. I can’t hold myself to a higher standard. Neither should you.

Here’s the deal: If you feel overwhelmed, talk to somebody. Anybody. Family. Friends. Teachers. Ministers. Get all that junky stuff in your head/heart on the table. Sort it out. Like a puzzle.

If there’s nobody you trust, check out the Suicide Prevention Lifeline (www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org) or call them at 1–800–273-8255. They’ll hook you up with a counselor at a crisis center.

Have courage. Stay alive. Help others.

OK?

Jim Lamb is a retired journalist and author of “Orange Socks & Other Colorful Tales,” the story of how he survived Vietnam and kept his sense of humor. This was one of the toughest things he’s ever written. For more about Jim and his writing, visit www.jslstories.com.

Uniforms that used to be so clean, pure

Painted red, a passionate color

The twisting petals of a white rose

After someone stuck their thumb 

On the thorn 

The blur of the emergency room lights

Faces swimming in and out of my vision,

Taunting 

I see their mouths urgently working out words

Hear nothing save a pulsing,

The whir of blood rushing past my ears

It is hazy, as if I started to long at the sun

Sun

Son

What happened to my son? 

My arms jerk to grasp my stomach

I feel empty, flat 

What happened to my son?