and maybe it's because you feel your life is running away without you.

wallow in your shoes

(damp from your trek in the creek, your socks squish between your toes)

were you ever driving the car?

or was the steering wheel always dragging your hands along with it

like it's doing now?

you could eat cotton candy while you drive,

shoving fistfuls of melting sugar in your mouth

while the trees go by

getting greyer and smaller

until you realize it's because you're bigger now than you used to be;

does that mean you're colourful?

your chin is sticky with the remembered candy you didn't eat

and your eyes have strayed from the road

you thought you weren't the one steering

but you crashed into the crumbling side of the overpass

and blamed yourself

if you had turned right

what's the last thing you remember?

the way your knuckles looked, clenched around the wheel?

the way your teeth felt electric?

the way the wall loomed? you noticed every crack

perhaps for the first time

you make a left turn, by the overpass

hauling the battered car back onto the dirt road

socks squelching between your toes, foot on the gas

remembered cotton candy staining your teeth

and on you drive

wondering if the steering wheel would keep on turning if you let go

Once more I am drawn into a challenge and this one is somewhat dear to my heart as I have written many pieces on the Native American Indian.

I don't know about the "constitutional definition" but from my perspective the definition would be more like belonging to or associated with a particular place (such as a country) because of being born in that place.

History tells us the Native American Indian was here in the United States before the colonials first arrived. Hence, the Native American is from here. The colonials were from another place (indigenous) but no less a native of both their culture and heritage they brought with them.

Native born. If I were born in India, I would be a native of the country as I would have been born there. Same applies to Poland, China, Australia and so forth. We then are born into specific beliefs taught to us at an early age. These same beliefs are passed on from generation to generation. As to the electing someone as President of the United States, the

Constitution is clear on this: to run, one must be born and reside in the United States at least fourteen years, and be at the very least, thirty-five years of age.

Now, in both the House of Representatives and the Senate, we have native born Americans born from another class of people. About a quarter of voting members (23%) of the U.S. House of Representatives and Senate are racial or ethnic minorities, making Congress the most racially and ethnically diverse in history. According to my research, 124 lawmakers today identify as Black, Hispanic, Asian/Pacific Islander or Native American.

For decades, the president has been predominantly white, but that all change when Obama was elected. This should tell you that to be president, neither race nor color takes precedence. Just the basic requirements.

In closing, to answer the one question: the constitutional rights of Alaska Egg-people are every bit as important as midget ice-cream bars are to Lilliputians. The rights of the individual in a sense are the rights of the collective. If no harm befalls those who are not into Alaskan eggs or midget ice cream bars, then all is right with the world.

I donate clothes to thrift stores & pass pieces of me

on to someone else. Am I making less of myself?

I don’t know, but I wear two shades of bright dresses

in case someone compliments the top layer,

& I can gift it to them right off my chest.

If my bedroom’s a mess it’s because my heart’s

stamped on too many of my things, & I can’t decide

who should own the quilted throws of me. PSAs always say

that giving away prized possessions is a sign

for suicide but every time I’ve passed down my best

belongings, they’ve been material stand-ins for my soft

chirrups of misremember me if you want, but you could use this.

When I want to die, the wren in me searches for high places

& considers eating soap. I’ve lifted my bones to ledges

of buildings & turned back around. I’ve called my mother

& told her of the water, how all along my life

there’s been a river & a dive I’ve never followed down

& we’ve both agreed, alright, then. We’ll look somewhere else.

After years of battling with persistent inconveniences ‘like unfortunate rest, torment, tension, stress, irritation, joint firmness and [existential] agony,’ I decided to give Kelly Clarkson CBD a try. I was skeptical at first as Kelly Clarkson CBD sounded like the classic snake oil pitch, but within a few minutes of consuming the gummies, I was blown away by the immediate reprieve. Where I was hanging by a thread ready to take that great leap into the dark, Kelly Clarkson CBD extended a beam of light like GOD down unto me. The tortuous nihilistic reality of my consciousness was bent through the mirror of cannabidiol coursing through my neurons. Now I have fortunate rest.

Thank you Kelly Clarkson CBD for saving my life!

he couldn’t read my handwriting. sometimes being the awkward white girl is painfully demoralizing. the wait was awful.

I only had one beer beforehand. I wasn’t shaking. performing onstage is beautiful. I watched the poets before me rage with passion, their voices carrying their truth like flowers down a stream.

I was number nine to go. he shouted my incorrect name into the microphone. I stood up, relieved, ready to be who I wanted to be.

I can‘t remember reading large parts of my poem. We were only allowed to read one.

their were five judges. we were scored on a scale of one to ten. ten meant you shook hearts. my average score? 7.5.

that‘s not too bad, a solid C grade. I had passed. I dropped the microphone on my way offstage. perhaps my dress had been see-through. I’ll never know. I just know it felt right, a wave of relief that my voice carried across the ocean of ears ready to hear a white girl sing.

"Cure save us? Cure good?" The eyes of the lifeless often had a sort of depth and darkness that left the ones who stared petrified, easing their status as prey to feast into. But what Clint noticed in Frederick's eyes right then was something else: a glint of hope, perhaps.

"Cure good." He left his retort short but with a reassuring smile. Patting him on the shoulder twice, Clint stood up, raising the bottle in his hand above the centre of the table. "To the cure, my friends!" Though only Jules managed to repeat the little chant after him, and the rest were indistinct but excited mumblings, he could feel things were going back to normal again. If there ever was a normal.

The night was one of celebration all around Charon's camp. From the very next day then, everyone on the site would start receiving their antidotes, and all of that zombie apocalypse stuff was about to be wrapped up for good. There was a part of Clint that wished the cure was developed earlier. Back when he met his sons for the first time and lost them.

But there was no time to stay miserable due to all that happened in the past. There was only time to be concerned about rebuilding what once was, even better than the way it was from the lessons learnt. A brighter future. Maybe, all of this was nature helping them set things straight-- Like floods that once cleansed it all, a virus that brought out the worst in each.

Clint grabbed another bottle, leapt over the bench and gestured for Jules to come over. Treading through the lifeless forms roaming around with newfound energy. one that seemed to give them wings, he settled down at the foot of the oak for the night. Jules, much slower to follow him, crashed beside him and let out a sigh. Both of them were yet to get drunk enough for a celebration, but what better entertainment than deep philosophical discussions for a good drink? And what company better than a man who always looked as if he had it with life?

"So," Clint laid down on his back, watching the night sky, "what now?" After enough grunting and shuffles, Jules settled himself too, "I guess I finally get to rest. Drink beer all day, live on a beach, maybe." They both let out a small giggle yet were unwilling to look at each other. Perhaps, if they did, the grown men would have broken down into tears knowing everything they did pay off in the end. That it was the right decision not to give up. So instead, they decided to crack jokes one after another, staring at the moonlit sky.

That was when all hell broke loose.

********

Every lamp in the basement laboratory went off in a quick flicker, leaving Dr Elizabeth Harlem in the creeping darkness. Right beneath the composed Charon and the fierce Margo, she used to feel this protective armour in the friendly camp until then, but something about the night felt off. Not even being in a healthy state to make a run, and the eerie silence from the floor above made her requestion the need of checking up on the well-being of her mutated friends. Ensuring that the regular creaking of the floorboard was not to leave the room, she slowly stepped her way towards the few samples of cure she kept away.

"So, you must be the infamous virologist, Dr Elizabeth Harlem." Elizabeth froze right where she stood. The stuttering, husky voice belonged neither to her sentient accomplices nor the unaffected ones. She couldn't turn back for her life, but the throbbing curiosity to identify the unwelcome intruder nearly unpetrified her senses.

"I read about you. A cure for the incurable virus." In the faint gleam of the moonlight that seeped in from the vents, she could see the silhouette of the tall figure making patterns inside the room. He was not attempting to come any closer, but he neither moved farther away, disallowing the tension to break free, "Who are you finding the cure for, Doctor? The mindless or the ones without a heart?"

Elizabeth sensed a lump against her throat, holding her back from uttering a word. Amassing all courage that she could, he shuffled her feet to confront the untimely stranger in the dark. The shadows in the room hid his frame above the chest, leaving her unable to discern his face, "Who are you?"

The silhouette let out a little chuckle, but it was soon cut short, almost on a note of despair, "For a woman of Science, mademoiselle, you are not asking the right questions." His trembling hands held one another tight, attempting to conceal his weakness, "Does it matter who I am, Miss Harlem? It hurts, though, doesn't it? To not know what's behind the shadows."

This was a game. A vicious game of cat and mouse. Elizabeth knew it, but her chances of escape were too trivial. She had to find another way. "What did you do to Margo and Charon?" She asked as she put one more step closer to the drawer of cures.

"Oh, your friends. I asked them to wait upstairs. Do you want me to invite them over?" Lizzie was right. Her worst nightmares had come true. Whoever this was, he had sentient control over Margo and Charon too. Even if she was to run away, she would be strangled to death by her own friends. She took one more step towards the drawer. Her only means of escape was curing three possibly barbarous beasts with her weak, injured physique. Only if Clint and Jules were here.

********

Clint and Jules could barely feel their feet touching the ground, one after another, speeding away from the hordes of impending doom that chased them. They had no idea what induced the sudden switch among the mindless. It could only mean one thing, and that was a possibility they were not ready to reckon with yet. But it was the only thing that made sense: Something happened to Charon.

But what concerned Clint more was that the devastating consequences would be far worse. Charon and Margo were together. Things even Charon couldn't hold back against would have still been an easy drill for Margo. And if it was indeed something wrong with Charon, it could only mean one thing: It wasn't just Charon who went down. Margo did too.

And that was terrifying. All the way from the beginning, running away from things that barely made any sense, they could rely on Margo to appear out of nowhere and save the day. If there was something that even Margo couldn't hold against, it meant that all their battles and sacrifices were to be lost for the day that preceded the morning that would have set everything straight.

Clint could no longer hold all the thoughts in. Amid panting like a hound affected by rabies, he yelled at Jules that they needed to go back at once. Whatever it was that set everything wild, it demanded a confrontation. But leading a massive horde of zombies to a constricted house with barely an escape plan seemed like a definite suicide.

There was only one way. They had to split ways: One to distract the mindless, the other to brawl with the worst of them. It was suicide nonetheless, but it left a chance for at least one of them to survive. One of them had to be alive to protect the cure. They fought and defended too long to lose it all, only a few hours till dawn.

When Clint looked up at Jules, he knew, at once, that he wouldn't make it till the end of this run-- it had to be Jules who got the final brawl. A fragment of him wanted to seek revenge for all that happened in his life, but it was no time for decisions based on emotions. It wasn't something Jules would have accepted if they had any other choice, but it was apparent from his features that he knew it too, "I'll come back for you, boy."

********

The headlamps of the vintage Corvette lightened up the murky alleyway for a brief moment. And as soon as the wiper blades came to a standstill, the windshield turned misty by the light drizzle. Unfastening the seatbelts tucking him in, Cory stepped out onto the mild rain, a faint smile stuck against his facade. Fingers sliding smoothly over the hood of the vintage car, he walked over to where the crippled frame laid, shivering.

Pulling up the sleeves of his chestnut suit, he squatted on his knees beside the figure, rubbing his cold arms against each other, "Well, hello, Captain Raymond. Long time no see. Had fun?" Agitated, Clint tried to grab Cory by the collars, but he was too weak and slow to land a blow. Laughing out loud into the silence of the night, Cory took a few steps backwards from him, fully intending to further infuriate him, "The angrier you get, the faster the virus takes over, you know. Makes things easier for me."

Seating himself on top of the grey garbage can, Cory let out a deep sigh, "Did you seriously think that there would be a--" His hands swished in the air, seeking for the right word to fit right in the statement, "timeline where you and your little gang save the world?" He could not keep in his laughter, only pausing once in a while just to continue even louder, "Ah, such a mess."

Hands skimming over his glossy hair, he took a deep breath, putting on a mask of earnestness, "You would not have taken that ridiculous cure either way, would you have, Clint? You have things left to do." Leaping out of his seat, Cory started walking around his newfound prey in circles, "As calm as you pretend to be, you, Mr Raymond, are vengeful. You need to tear someone apart right from the core, but who? All those who were responsible for everything that happened to you-- they are all gone. But all that anger, all that spite, it's eating you away from the inside, isn't it?"

Cory, once again, squatted right beside him, offering him a chance at vindication, "But I-- I can help you. You know it. And I could use someone like you, Captain. We would set right what's wrong with this world. Together." Clint shuffled away from him, groaning in pain, seemingly striving his best to keep the manipulative monster away from him.

"It's useless, Clint, and you know it! Give in already."

Silence. Cory slowly stepped closer and closer to the weakling. Sitting beside him for one last time in the night, he stretched his arms towards the mangled figure. And when his hands felt the coldness of the once-righteous Captain, he knew he was closer than ever to his final triumph.

########

Well, that was way longer than I intended it to be. To be honest, I was struggling to finish even a single paragraph when I began writing this chapter. But then... something happened. However, there might be a bit too many grammatical errors up in there, but bear with me, won't ya (: I hope you guys enjoy the chapter! Love y'all ^-^

Cover Image: https://media.istockphoto.com/photos/zombie-hand-holding-old-wooden-board-empty-space-for-text-or-draw-picture-id1166085591b=1&k=20&m=1166085591&s=170667a&w=0&h=gLTbukgnaRJAnMoOh8CADejzDz5uEuIMv8ODexRhHss=

Eventually the party’s over.

Eventually everybody goes home.

Food’s put away;

Lights turned off.

What's left?

Heartbeats, dreams.

& a restless breath.

Copyright 2022

if i could get you back

if i could somehow jog the memory,

reignite the flame

that was supposed to never die.

if i could re-strengthen the fire,

the one that is supposed to

eternally pull us closer still

until one again.

if i could make math redetermine

the values of

two halves, yet two souls

and somehow make them one.

if i could have you back,

i guess i would give anything for that,

because it hurts to see you so close

and yet feel so very far from your heart.

i feel misplaced,

traded in,

pushed back,

forgotten.

i have screamed all i can,

spoken eloquent words,

replayed our favorite tunes,

laid it out for you in tears,

and nothing brings you anywhere near

to back to me as you were.

nothing stands a chance

against the white throned.

i always believed there was one love

meant to be for everyone,

there was one path to eternity.

but that was before

you showed me that

love has forks

and you could actually be undecided on

which one to travel,

before you told me that they may sometimes run parallel,

they will always part,

and i will always have the lower end.

because i just lost that spark,

and you just closed your eyes

on the brightest light born,

and opened them in another direction.

you found something else

to light your way,

another map to explore.

i just wish that i could bring you back.

if only i could.

#poetry

#love

#missingyou

Yo,

If I told you who I was, I'd be ruining my whole point of being here.

I could say a bunch of things I like though.

Books, music (of any and most type), painting, photography, dancing, writing, planning, and...well, that's all I remember right now.

Anyway, hi. I am me. I am here. That's enough. And....

Nice to meet you.

-SJ