There is blood cascading in rivulets down my face and a part of me thinks it would make for a pretty picture if I could stop soaking it up for long enough to grab my camera- but I don't. As it continues to pour down my face, dripping down my throat when I tilt my head back I wonder how much more of this I can take. This is the third one today and the crimson tissues in my hands have stopped soaking it up.

It's splattering across the sink basin now. It looks almost beautiful as I turn the tap on, shoulders quivering with sobs and I wash the water down...

down.

down.

The water is pink now and I find it kind of pretty.

Y'know, pink was my favorite color when I was a kid.

I wanted to paint my room with it.

I'm glad mama stopped me.

Now all I think of when I see that color is watered down blood

spiraling- spiraling endlessly down that drain.

and I begin to think that I'm spiraling -just a little bit- too.

No one came. I watched sadly as this little girl sat alone, crying at a table set for thirty. Her mother was angrily yelling at people on the phone, but it didn't change that the kid would never forget it. There was nothing I could do but bring out the pizza and the cake that I've been trying my hardest to keep my tears from falling onto. It seemed like the final kick to this kid, to bring out a shit ton of food that no one but her was going to eat. I wanted to do something nice for her, so I grabbed my coat and asked someone to cover for me.

The gas station across the street had cards, which I knew well since I was the shitty friend buying a card on the way to a party and scribbling something sentimental into it. I bought one of the nicer, five-dollar ones and raced back to the store. I looked out the window to see the girl still crying and her mother still cursing. It broke my heart. I stole a purple pen and wrote in pretty letters, I hope your day gets better, kid. One day things will all get better. and slipped it into an envelope along with $20. I licked the envelope and brought it out, along with one small hot fudge sundae. The little girl didn't even notice me until I was standing before her, lightly grazing her arm with the card to avoid human contact.

She looked and I could see her sad brown eyes. Realizing that this kid's self-worth had been kicked down further made me wish I had had more money or could go find every kid that didn't come and slap them for not being better friends.

"Here you go," I said softly. "I'm sorry."

She took the card with confusion. She opened it and was reading it when her mother noticed me, and came running forward.

"Fuck are you doing around my kid?" she screamed.

"I-- I was just--"

"Get away from my kid, you fucking creep!"

The woman began to swing at me, and I retreated into the kitchen. I saw her call over my manager, screaming angrily and pointing at me. She noticed her daughter, whose crying had stalled as she read my card, and snatched the card away. The woman yelled more, waving the card at my manaager and cursing. The money fell, and she grabbed it, put it into her bra, and resumed yelling. I saw the girl walk off, and watched her calmly walk out of the party place. I was going to follow her but my manager came in screaming. He reamed me for about five minutes before we heard the scream that made the whole building race outside.

The little girl was in the street bleeding out. Her mother was screaming, and when she saw me, she raced over to attack me. I barely felt her blows as I watched the little girl get medical treatment from complete strangers while other people called for help. Her mother was still hitting me as if I had stolen her man.

"You killed my baby! You killed my baby!" she was screaming with every blow.

Her hits didn't hurt as bad as seeing the little girl struggling for her life. Her mother's lack of concern only angered me more. Eventually, I pushed her aside, effectively knocking her down. She looked angrily at me, but I didn't care anymore. I knew that I wasn't to blame, but her words had hit me hard. I walked past both her and my manager, retreated into the kitchen's refrigerator, and began to bawl.

She lives in daydreams with me

and I don’t know why

She’s a tear in my heart

I’m on fire

My skies are blue

havent been for a while

I cannot act out

all my reasons for dreaming

Since even I must admit my

dreams are dead I can’t

treat you better than anyone else can

I thought you’d be happier without

all the judgement we get

from everyone else but

now just say the word and

I’ll go anywhere blindly when you

turn the music up there’s

nothing holding me back

I knew you were trouble when

you walked in the door like

smooth silky lightening in the

incandescent air

breathe me in and I can see your

heart of a dancer and

breathe me out

it’s golden as I open my eyes

lights up now and

nobody can drag me down

I like the way you talk about

staring in the clouds at our big

bright future and it’s fun to

fantasize about our high

high hopes

Don’t ever change

they said I should run not walk away but

now it’s a little too late there

aint no rest for the wicked so

let’s wake up to ash and dust

Everything we touch turns to gold as

She plays songs I’ve never heard

Everyday we bend the rules and

turn up the crazy as I’m

bleeding out for you blasting

music from the car radio if

this is a dream don’t wake me

The Reverend Gregory Thompson was awake. As he did every night, the Reverend stared into the blackness while oblivious to its presence around him. He gazed through the darkness with a tunnel-like vision, peering beyond it, and into a singular memory which played for him in technicolor on its other side, a memory that shone beacon-like, carrying him back forty years, back to the day when it became obvious to him that his wants and desires must be stashed away in the deepest depths of his mind lest they derail it all; his future, his mission, his eternity. He had kept those wants and desires hidden away now for much the better part of his life it should be noted, but for that one April afternoon, that one indelible Sunday in Miami when some force of nature, be it in the name of good or evil, had allowed him to realize them.

Like it was yesterday the Reverend recalled how his clerical collar scratched at the razor burn on his neck as he roasted hatless beneath a tropical sun. He recalled how the women and children in swimsuits and flip-flops gave him a wide berth, as though he were begging for money, rather than trying to help them... to save them even. He remembered the colorful, frozen cocktails the women carried down the boardwalk even though it was only one o’clock in the afternoon, and how those women averted their eyes as they passed him by. His cheeks burned as he recalled the way the more muscular men silently warned him away before he had even spoken to them. And then there were those others, the ones who politely accepted a prayer card only to drop it to the sun bleached boards once safely past the “crazy preacher-man.”

But then he saw her there before him once again, slicing quickly and easily through the tourist throngs, just as she had done on that day, just as she did every night since, her smile for him alone, the buttons of her blouse straining as though she were overripe. Her skin was toasted brown, her eyes and hair dark, as a latin woman’s are. “Jou are too hot, mi predicador. Come conmigo... I cool jou.”

She had taken his hand in hers. He had followed her pretty, bare feet into a dark cantina where she sat across from him at a table for two. An old man with compassionate eyes poured iced sangria into a tall glass. A ceiling fan creaked above, blowing soft air against his wet skin. Her plump, red lips cooed words he could not understand. He slouched in his seat, the sun having drained him of energy. He drank the sweet wine she held to his mouth, and he bit into orange and lemon slices offered to him by delicate fingers, slices sweeter even than the wine, slices that burst with tangy syrups when punctured by his teeth. He sat patiently for her ministrations, leaning in while her quick fingers wiped the stray juices from the corners of his mouth and lingered there after, as though tempted to enter.

He could still recall most every moment; the way her eyes never left his, the wooden banana crates stacked haphazardly against the back wall and ready to tumble, the smell of frying tortillas, and the sound of happy laughter from the sidwalk. He remembered the feelings of desire, and guilt, and drunkeness. He remembered how his heart raced in a way it never had before, leaving his head light, and his groin heavy. He remembered the desperate urge to get away, and the even stronger urge to stay... and he remembered the bare foot and toes that found their way up to his lap under the table, kneeding him, massaging away any remaining resolve.

He remembered more wine, and then a dark, narrow staircase with loose, creaking steps. He remembered rounded, swaying hips barely concealed by a light summer skirt. He remembered her face as she turned to look at him with eager eyes, their excitement feeding his. He remembered a dimly lit room with dust hanging in the valance. He remembered soft lips, and a probing tongue. He remembered pressing his own lips tight to keep the tongue out, but it had pried, and probed before slithering serpent-like inside. He recalled dueling with it before succumbing, whipping and lashing it with heavy breaths.

The Reverend remembered the way her bare skin felt against his, cool and soft... how the darkness of it contrasted with the pale of his, and how he had absorbed the smells of her perspiration and her woman’s cassolette, exhaling them reluctantly. He remembered her nipples carressing his thighs, and his chest, and he recalled bursting directly before he died.

He woke from death on a beach, where he laid bathed in a tangerine twilight, shoeless, walletless, even his clerical collar gone, but those things were of little matter. There were people walking the beach; lovers holding hands, taking him in, but not approaching; curious people, maybe even concerned people. He remembered walking into the water to wash away the smells, and the feels, and the sins, but he found that sand and saltwater could not scrub some things away.

Forty years later those things still lingered in the dark of night, those sins, and sensations. Forty years later her nipples still carressed his skin, and her tongue still probed, looking for a way inside. She might have been a devil, that woman, but he would have sworn she was an angel, his angel, who showed him what it was to be a man. He remembered her lessons well, every night of his life. It was a feeling he hoped never to forget... not ever, and so he worked to remember.

Even when called home, the Reverend Thompson was certain that he would remember. He had faith that he would remember, just as he had faith in his God, and in a life after death. The Reverend Thompson needed to believe that love was forever, both when he was a man, and when he was not, and so he prayed to his loving God every night before invoking the memory of a sinful, earthly love.