Despair hangs over the room like a wet towel: heavy and charged with tension. I stare at

my computer screen, the single source of light against a room filled with darkness, and pretend not to notice as you sit in the tan, ragged arm chair next to the couch and turn on the television. My heart beats loudly in my ears, pressure building in my temples. I want you to speak, to acknowledge the toxicity of the atmosphere between us, and to own your part of it, but whether by stubbornness or inattention, you do not speak. Images flash on the flat, high-definition screen – a movie or videogame, perhaps – and your focus is torn away from me. I sigh deeply, hoping to signal my malcontent, but you seem not to notice, and another piece of my love for you is lost.

I want him to want me. I want him to want me so much, it overpowers his doubts, mutes his objections. I want him to know nothing beyond wild passion for me. Then, I want him to fuck me. I want him to fuck me with his thoughts, the secrets he keeps hidden behind inexperience. I want him to fuck me with his eyes, those same eyes which steal glances down my low-cut shirts. I want him to fuck me with his words, his tongue dancing behind teeth to the tune of our hips pounding. I want his fingers inside of me, sliding along me. I want his lips, soft and wet, to take me into them as I writhe beneath the pathway to the goddess of don’t-fucking-stop. I want him to fuck me with his erection, the part of him no other human has touched. I want his desire to lead him to me, to all of this, but then I open my eyes and realize it could never be.

They still haunt me. They are two figures that live through the memories and damage of the past, songs that repeat in my mind like a radio station that only plays the same hits

on an endlessly repeating cycle.

My station is perpetually tuned to grief.

Sometimes, the volume is low enough, almost undetectable, and I can hear the other songs of life. Optimism temporarily replaces pessimism. I can feel happiness without dread, that evil twin that diligently seeks to poison all that is beautiful and good around me. I can look to the future and see potential for fulfillment, rather than disappointment. Lust overwhelms and pulses within me, an insatiable demand for pleasure. The figures do not intrude.

But, unavoidably, the volume increases and the distorted songs of grief blast above

everything else. Triggered by conflict, happiness is replaced by anger, acceptance is replaced by anxiety, and hope is replaced by dejection. It is then that the figures, ghosts of lives that never were finally return. They are small, hollow figures with crimson eyes that gleam and taunt. It isn’t like the movies – they do not knock pictures over or leave doors ajar. They do not reside in the walls of my house. They come to me at night, appearing in the deepest reaches of my dreams. Sometimes, I don’t remember dreaming of them, and sometimes they are all I recall. Regardless, I feel them with me throughout the day, and I know that I will see them again when I return to bed.

It has been years since my second miscarriage, yet the figures are still with me. They

used to frighten me, but they have been with me for so long, I have become accustomed to their presence, even comforted by them. They do not speak. They make no demands. They want nothing of me. They are simply two individual parts of me, both etched into their own respective corners of my psyche. I only acknowledge them in writing. I do not speak of them. I do not speak to them, not even when they visit me in slumber. They live in me. They are of me. They are me.

Today I am thankful for poetry. I wrap myself in pages, diving deep into the welcoming

waters of verse and rhyme and metaphor; I cover the wounds of my soul. Like a salve against festering flesh, I breathe in the sacred scent. Hatred and fear surround me, but in poetry I find respite, arms to comfort and protect. In the calm, hope emerges, a faint pulse against the riot. Glimmering. Unwavering. Building ever stronger.

Unstoppable.

Long hair hangs about my face and chest; piercing eyes of brown or hazel or grey, I’m

not sure which; milky pale skin, smooth to the touch; a smile that stings and unnerves me, as if she sees through the armor in which I’ve so carefully girded myself, as if she understands that which I cannot give voice. My gaze wanders to her chest, but with a single finger, she lifts my gaze back to hers and presses her soft lips against mine. She smells of vanilla and cinnamon. The tip of her tongue slides along my lips and I can’t help but open my mouth to allow her access. Her fingers run through my hair, grab my hair, yank back my head. I open my eyes and take in her face, smiling and dangerous, before her lips return and her tongue forces its way into my mouth, making circles around mine. I moan as her hands drop to my chest, working the tips between her fingers, my spark fanned to a blaze. She giggles behind the kiss and eases into me, her chest against mine as we fall back. I let out a deep, slow breath as her warm fingers probe deeply, my body and soul aching to be taken, mutilated, released. She slides them over me slowly, aware of her beautiful torture. In and out, left and right, they move. But before long, before the rush of climax, she puts herself above me, slides her tongue along the outline of my jaw, and then down my neck, between my breasts, and below my navel. I am frozen with anticipation and the thrill of her desire, her consuming hunger for me. All I can do is breathe until her tongue dances against me and then I am hers completely.

It’s the first of October; you can tell by the wind that rages in waves, dancing on branches and fondling leaves that have only just begun to lose their green. Almost as if the earth knows that September has died, blue skies are veiled in pale and dark clouds that sometimes release heavy raindrops and sometimes roll at fearsome speeds across the sky, but mostly hover and stare at you as you stare back, mourning the loss of summer, and reveling in the birth of autumn. You squint as raging wind rushes over you with howling violence; your breath stalls, your lungs momentarily overwhelmed by the force, and you smile at the moist scent of earth that swarms about you.

You love autumn, and not merely for the orange and plum and crimson leaves, or the fog or silver moon; you love autumn for its darkness, for its brash honesty, and for the fact that it knows and keeps your innermost secrets. You are the truest version of yourself in the autumn months, and they neither judge nor rebuke you for it. They accept you as their own, as that is who you are. As the winds knock leaves and branches against your house, you wonder if, perhaps, you were a witch in a past life, or if you’re becoming a ghost of the life that died with September? Or maybe autumn’s unconditional acceptance has less to do with what you were or are, but rather with what you will become?

Golden sunlight, resplendent against a canvas of late spring blue, dances with the stream of water as it falls over the edge and into the river below. I sit on the floor of the cavern behind the falls and breathe in the scent of fresh water. My skin prickles as a sharp, cool mist hits my face, as if the fingers of the waterfall have reached out to welcome me, caressing my skin on the afternoon breeze.

He sits behind me, his arms wrapped around my chest, holding me close to his warm body. I can feel his heartbeat against my back, strong and rapid from his venture down to the river and back up again. I smile as he kisses the back of my head and says, “I love you” for the fifth time in ten minutes. I’m about to turn my head and speak when, suddenly, he’s kneeling next to me, his eyes wide and filled with anticipation.

From seemingly nowhere, a ring appears. It’s a single marquis diamond in the center of a silver band. I meet his gaze as he tells me how much he loves me and wants to spend every day of his life by my side as my husband. With tears in his eyes he asks me to marry him, and I know what my answer will be.

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I could only stare. Words escaped me. I’m not even sure if I was breathing. My heart

thumped against my chest and white spots colored my vision. At first I could only stare,

desperate to find some reasonable explanation for what I was looking at, but no matter how I tried, I couldn’t uncover one. I was livid. After everything, after all I had sacrificed, how could he do this to me? Tears filled my eyes as I turned and climbed back into my vehicle. I couldn’t drive. My vision was blurred by the hot torrent of tears that ran down my cheeks. I breathed heavily, trying to quell the hatred and anger burning a hole into my chest. I thought back over the previous months and replayed bits and pieces of our interactions, the promises he made, his assurances, and like a veil lifted away, I now saw everything I had refused to see before: how he hadn’t met my gaze when he promised to seek help for his addiction, how he’d never produced any proof that he’d actually sought that help, and how he had always insisted that he be the one to check the mail first.

How could I have missed such telling signs? Was it stupidity? Blind faith? Or simply the hope that, for one, we could have a marriage free of lies and disappointment and financial instability? I knew it was luck which had brought me home early that day, affording me a chance to retrieve the mail before he had seen it. In it I had found a bank statement, and it had betrayed my husband’s falsehoods.

All of our savings had been spent. Again.

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I see her from across the room, with dark hair and eyes that gleam and a strong figure.

She is beautiful, gorgeous, the stuff fantasies are made of, yet she isn’t who she is because of beauty. She’s strong. Built to last. An immortal figure of goodness and protection. I stare as she moves by me, elegantly tall; her dark eyes catch mine for a moment, a fleeting moment, and then she’s gone, forever out of my reach. I don’t want her for myself, I want to be her. Strong and capable, a harbinger of truth and justice. I will never be her, will never be like her. I am not made of whatever brought her into existence. I am not strong or good, I am not beautiful, I will not last. She is all I want, everything I can never be.

That is why I must take her life.

He stares at me from across the room, his gaze intense and unwavering. Does he know

how uncomfortable it makes me? How awkward it is to be around him in class or elsewhere on campus? How distracting it is to feel his eyes on me while I’m trying to listen to and process the lecture being delivered? I make eye contact and raise my eyebrows, hoping he will notice my quizzical expression and look away, but he only stares. It is an odd stare, too – not like the kind to which I am (sadly) accustomed, where it feels as if I am being mentally undressed. That kind of stare I could ignore. This one is different and, somehow, worse than obvious sexual objectification. The latter I can chalk up to immaturity and misogyny. This stare seems purposeful, as if he is attempting to decipher every letter and number and order of the two which make up my identity. I look away, confused, annoyed, and unnerved. I sigh deeply and look back, glaring angrily. I expect him to see my frustration, snap out of his apparent trance, and break his stare embarrassingly. He still stares, only now a wolfish grin tugs at the corners of his lips. It is wicked. His eyes twinkle with cruel satisfaction as they meet mine, and immediately, I know the truth.

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