I can remember all the darkness before the light.

I was shrouded. It was pretty surreal. So much nothing all at once.

I felt my way around-- aimless. It was me in a dark room and the most I felt were cold spaces. If you've ever been there, you'll understand exactly what I mean.

I strongly believe everyone knows what I mean, to be quite frank.

She was a flickering lantern concealed by the blanket of rain clouds. I'd have never thought I'd feel the damp cloth, and I'd expected even less to find a flickering light beneath it! My room had been lit ablaze, and by God, it was so incredibly beautiful! Where this had been all hiding, I remained unsure-- but there it was. Warm, bright, and mine.

All mine.

A rainy August morning is where it'd all began at the ending. The clouds had been swirling menacingly overhead, vicious raindrops looming within. In the past of my childhood, those days brought me comfort-- now, it reflected the whirlwind of my soul. I'd lost my job, the woman I'd loved with my whole soul and being left me in the dust for my 'momma's-favourite' brother, and I was a mess. No umbrella was needed today-- I was already going to get wet, anyway.

I'd embarked from my shitty apartment. I had three things with me that murky dawn-- A bent, grainy photo of her in my torn wallet in my front-left pocket, and a note in my left-back. People typically made notes for these sort of things, didn't they? To confess their 'regrets' and each individual 'sorry'. I wasn't sorry-- just angry.

Anger makes one do wild, insane things.

In that stewing level of being "done", a strong scent wafted straight into my bitter soul. I turned my head to catch the source-- hah. Speaking of "bitter", it was a coffee shop! The smell was better than most coffee scents, which surprised me-- the place looked as though it'd been from the Dark Ages. Yet, it smelt of Heaven. My feet came to a twisted halt. Whatever overcame me, I'd thank myself later for, because I walked in after only hardly a-moments hesitation.

A last meal for the self-sentenced man on Death Row.

I ordered a large coffee- two sugars and creamer, just as I liked it. I tried to take my time, but time escaped me rather quickly-- it was empty in only a few minutes. As I stared into the dark residue on the bottom of the printed mug, my poorly-maintained train-of-thought was screeched to a halt by one voice.

Sweet, like the sugar in my coffee: "Would you like a refill?"

"I have no money." Came the quick and silver-tongued response. It was kind of a lie-- I had a little money left. But there was no use in delaying the inevitable, right? More coffee meant more time wasted here. More time to rethink.

"Refills are on the house, Darlin'."

This time, I looked up to the vocal in hopes of protesting and politely declining the offer. But like peanut butter, those polite protests glued to my throat walls. I'd like to consider myself separated totally and completely from the laws of God, but the one thought on my blank-slate mind had been etched with permanent chalk;

When did God make such a beautiful creature?

I cleared my throat, prying my eyes from her holy, brown hair.

"If you're certain, I'd hate to not accept."

What the Hell?

The rich liquid of the Lord poured into my mug-- two sugars, a creamer-- and I drank it all up like it were a newfound urge to live. She mentioned that's how she drank coffee, too. I mentioned that she had good taste. I asked when she worked next, she laughed and said "Tuesday at three".

I went home, and a paper note with a torn photograph went into my dollar wastebin.

As I came back Tuesday at three, then Thursday at seven, and evermore beyond that, I found myself smiling. Can you believe it? A no-life loser like me, smiling like an angel-struck goofball. But if you'd met her, you'd know too-- She was an angel sent straight from the highest level of Heaven. An angel, who drank coffee with two sugars and a creamer.

It was really odd, now that I look back. She'd always sit in my booth after her shift, we'd laugh. I complimented her delectable hazel eyes, and she'd compliment my stupid grey ones. It was too good to be true, wasn't it--An angel like her that radiated such light. But it was true, and it was good-- That's all I needed. My precious angel, my sweet lantern-- she lit my way. I'd gotten back on my feet and soon found myself answering phones from 9 to 5. It definitely wasn't my preferred position, but it certainly paid for the two things I needed paid for-- Bills, and coffee.

Then, it was her. I'd earnt the right to call her my "girlfriend" months after that one rainy day in August. Then, it became my wife. I was a married man-- one who kept far away from my lousy brother with his lousy, high-paying salary. None of that mattered anymore, not even him-- I got to experience kissing her every morning, and afternoon, and night. I claimed every inch of her skin as mine in a vow beyond the aisle.

She was my angel. My lantern.

I know now I wasn't the only one who thought so.

I'd been out running errands. Getting flowers. Getting those chocolates she liked. A coffee with two sugars, one creamer. I was on top of the world and suddenly, I'd sank to the bottom. There, in a booth in that stupid coffee corner, was her. Her, and some man with a lot of hair. They didn't see me, but oh- I saw them. I neglected my coffee at the counter and flew my heartbroken ass straight home.

I waited.

She came home. I demanded an answer. As my angel tried to plea her innocence, I saw them- "love bites", and they weren't mine. We hadn't made love in at least two weeks. Soon, I found it to be pleading- begging for an answer!

And her response? Golden.

She replied with the iced demand for a divorce.

I recall back to "anger". I must've gone blind, see-- all I know is my hands wrapped around that beautiful, slender neck of hers, and her wings had snapped like my attitude. It took me a moment to realize exactly what I'd done, because I was too confused by the sudden darkness for it to all click.

I'd extinguished my own lantern.

Everything was dark and I felt no sopping sheets of fleece. I tried to fix it- honest to God, I did! I suppose there's no fixation for the coldness that is Death, though. Google had no answers, and neither did I.

I had nothing.

2 o'clock A.M, I'd slipped my sleeping beauty and I into our car and drove. Past the intersections and lights, past the go-to stores, and past the coffee shop where it'd all began. I drove and drove until I saw the curve of the bridge, and thereof parked in a crooked position. What will they do? Ticket me?

Whatever. It doesn't matter. I'm understanding now that all angels are doomed to fall, and Fate demands to be met. Here I stand, with my beautiful angel in my arms, and Fate waits in the water as I prepare to leap into their's. This note is sloppy, smudged, but it's a note.

I'm sure it'll answer all your questions.

-Sincerely yours and forever more in the pits of Hell,

[Smudged Ink]

The day after I met you was the day I chose my thesis-

"Why the world could, in fact, come to a

complete halt

and not throw off the sustainability of

Life".

To continue further on,

Life made more sense with every passing day.

The idea of you ceasing to exist in mine

threw off the entire balance of my nature--

for the first time in my life,

I understood Shakespeare

more than Edgar Allen Poe.

As the hours melted into days,

forged into months,

and were used as years,

this "Tell-Tale Heart" of mine

beat over my senses

and I felt the need to confess to my one and only crime--

loving you.

Although, it wasn't as though you were so clean as to cry

"innocent"--

in fact, you provoked my felony

by stealing something so precious and dear to me--

my heart. To be fair, though,

I don't want it back.

John Donne said in his own written word:

"Ask not for whom the bell tolls,

it tolls for thee".

I read it wrong then,

and understand it clearly now--

the bells of the church toll for us this day,

us alone,

us together.

We stand together at this altar,

in love,

and I'm giving you my vows--

promises.

Promises that I will be yours,

and you mine!

How splendid an idea!

Referring back to "crimes",

I now feel it is appropiate to confess

that I lied.

I have committed one more act of crime--

In a cunning trick,

I have replaced your last name

with mine.

Trickery at it's finest.

I suppose that perhaps I should feel bad-

you are as changed as last year,

and here I stand 

playing "switcharoo" on your identity!

May I ask for your forgiveness?

I do hope that you forgive me,

truthfully.

If I may be honest

and share my opinion--

not to pardon my actions--

my last name works better on you

anyway.

I deserve

to shove "disgusting" food down my "gaping maws"

after months of despising the hills of my flesh,

after I became the closest of confidants with Ana,

after resisting the black stars clouding my vision as though they were

storm clouds--

rain included.

I deserve

to be loud,

following the years of clamping my

stone teeth

on fragile cheeks

until they bled

the words I couldn't say;

following the liquid knives you forced down my throat--

they weren't alcohol,

but burnt just as badly

as they settled in my belly.

It taught me that

sticks and stones

will not break your bones,

but they will break the soul of your calves and feet and thighs

so that you may not stand.

I deserve to be confrontational

after tying my tongue into bunny ears like shoe laces,

refusing to stand up for myself--

for others--

spending my months tethered to a post

as a light-up keychain

in a gift shop--

depersonalized,

in a constant "what if".

In the hurdles I've lept

and nicked my ankles

and toes on,

I deserve nothing less than 

to be

loved

and unique to myself--

thank you very much.

Between city skyscrapers,

there is a woman who lost her virginity to a man she didn't know.

He was old enough to be her father,

And forced her to do his bidding as a business dealer

with no time for negotiation.

He committed the dishonour,

yet she is the one who lost her worth.

Nonetheless--

She should've been thankful someone wanted her in such a fashion.

Beneath the trees of the suburbs,

there is a man who's struck by his lover as the streetlamps 

bathe their lawns in fools' gold.

She weeps into his spots of black--

as though the salted water might pale them to white--

for she'd never hurt him if he didn't provoked her.

fight back--

she'd be the victim.

He cannot dare utter for help--

only curse the splotches of the night sky across his flesh--

because that would be weak.

Relationships are meant to last.

Besides:

She's a woman, and womencannot be the cat,

and men cannot be the mouse.

In the small-town fifty miles South,

There is a black man who's being followed through grocery shops,

Through soup-can aisles,

by employees with the "mandatory duty"

to keep their merchandise on the shelves

and not in his pockets.

It's not because he's had a criminal history;

In fact, he's a lawyer,

with three beautiful children.

It's a judgement call.

He looks suspicious.

"Dark" equates to "Dangerous".

One could go on:

About the woman in the hijab who's thrown words of stone,

such as a "terrorist"

and "innocent victim of Islamic oppression".

Two sides of the same bent coin.

What about the tenth-grade boy

who shatters as glass and sand on his pillow each night?

Are digital letters less severe than the words spat between the teeth

as stones

aimed at his hourglass flesh?

Enough.

Out there, there is no acceptance

unless you fit in a mold

made of gold

and steel.

The world's forgotten that

we all are buried in the same way;

Six feet under,

same earth,

or burned in different urns,

but tossed into the same atmosphere,

and not a soul will care for your casket's price tag.

No,

they'll care for your character's net-worth.

Ask yourself;

if kindness were currency,

how rich would you be?

Out there,

stands you,

watching, waiting,

maybe not caring--

because it isn't you who's being thrown off buildings

like paper airplanes

for being loving a fellow man,

or it being law to walk with your brother

before going outside,

nor are you worrying about becoming a statistic--

reduced to a number rather than name--

on "How many x have been murdered/assaulted/et cetera".

Or,

perhaps you're letter E;

none of the above.

You see or hear the pain.

Your skin soaks the blood spilt on sidewalks,

then claim to understand it.

Fortunately, false.

You cannot scratch a soft line onto your thigh,

and then claim you understand their pain when they were shot thrice

for simply existing.

Act as a red octagon posted on roadways--

Stop claiming you understand,

and start accepting you don't,

Don't mistake that--

it doesn't mean ignore the problem.

It means start doing the right thing instead of doing things right,

because out there,

in desert sands

and tropical trees

there are young girls the age of your daughter

exchanging vows of wet cheeks

and bubbling lungs

with men twice your age.

You can make a difference--

you will make a difference-- 

even if you die for it, for the ones who cannot speak.

Joan of Arc was lit as a torch in the end,

yet is remembered more than the ones who burnt her.

Beyond us,

There's you, me, them.

Suffering, fighting,

loving, hopeful.

Out there,

Is opportunity for change.

You,

with lungs of fire and a throat cast of iron,

have the voice of a messiah.

Use them,

for the ones out there.