you´re the cloud 

and 

I am the rain

that 

comes 

      out 

       of

          It 

 I 

drip 

   drop,

                drip,

drip,

teardrops 

that 

       f

           a

          l

              l

 down

             your 

           chest 

that dribble 

onto your lips 

waiting for your mouth 

to engulf 

me 

in your Love 

This body is built for regret, 

built to disappoint.

Drinking in light, sweat,

vodka, heroin, hate, confusion,

ownership.

What is poured out in 

compensation 

is wasted, unremarked,

unappreciated, 

a commodity.

And when two

     or more

bodies are thrown together

for whatever purpose,

can they do else but

disappoint the other?

Or is there some small victory

in being distracted from the

mess you have made of yourself

by the mess another has made 

of themselves?

Hollow victories are victories no less.

The degree of one another's 

disgust is the gauge of our existences.

It is possible to follow a map of scars

to a point of forgetting, 

but not back again, at least 

not easily. 

     Once when I was a boy, 

     I stood knee deep in the Pacific Ocean

     and wished it to drag me under

     to carry me away to Japan or

     the Aleutian Islands. 

     Someplace where I was unknown

     and unknowable, a strange

     faraway boy

          with his first scar

          and his commodity

               just beginning.

Every time he pushes the needle into his vein, Peter sees Tinkerbell's last moments. Not that he needs the drug for that; all he really has to do is close his eyes and he's back there. Nothing has felt right since that day, and of course now that she's dead, he's stuck here.

Here. Here is London. It's pouring rain, and Peter is huddled in the alley beside the Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital, getting soaked. It's late evening, and people are rushing past the alley mouth under umbrellas, hurrying home or to the tram stop. Peter hunches over, rain pelting the back of his neck. He wears a wool stocking cap all the time here; pointed ears draw too much attention, lead to too many brawls with other street boys.

Sometimes, in the afternoons, he is able to slip inside the Hospital and wander around and just curl up in a corner of the lobby for a few hours, before the watchman notices him and rousts him out again. From there, he always comes here, to the alley, from the mouth of which he can watch the front of the Hospital building and see who comes and goes.

Whenever he goes into the alley, he reaches into his pocket for the school chalk he stole from the parish school near Haymarket and makes a mark on the bricks of the alley mouth, above his own head, but eye level on a grown man. Peter, as ever, looks like fourteen-year-old boy.

The little needle trembles in his hand. He's running out of veins; he's blown the ones in his arms and ankles. He had to hide behind a stack of broken crates and garbage just now and use the vein in his dick. The drug slithers into him like a burrowing worm and he leans against the wet brick wall, growing oblivious to the cold, oblivious to the London sealing him off from Neverland.

Peter forces his eyes to stay open, even though his lids feel made of solid iron. He tries to watch the comings and goings at the Hospital, but it is no use. His long-lashed eyes, bright green - the most beautiful eyes a boy ever had, a man once told him - fluttered shut and there was Tinkerbell. 

Hook had torn her open from the neck, well, downward. Hook was a syphilitic maniac; Peter had been too busy binding up Smee to help, he thought she'd be able to fly away, tinkling her laugh as he swooped just out of Hook's reach. But Peter had been, for the first time, too late, and Hook too insane. 

How long ago now was that? He had an idea, but didn't want to think too much about it. Slumped against the wall, Peter waited, muttering to himself. He missed the Lost Boys, when he was coming down. He'd like to do this drug with them, he'd thought many times.

Peter hears a man's footsteps, a man's walking cane tapping at the mouth of the alley. Adrenaline suddenly pours into him, waking him, jangling his nerves. He pushes off the wall and faces the man.

It is Michael Darling. Thank god it is Michael Darling. He is older now, maybe twenty. They've met, many times. Michael looks over his shoulder, then quickly darts into the alley. 

"Hello, Peter," he says, his voice like a silk scarf. Peter just nods. Michael's look bores into him. Peter nods again and turns to face the wall. Michael moves behind him. The night air is cold on his ass, and the hot pain of Michael makes Peter feel frozen and burning alive at once. As always, Michael makes Peter tell him about Tink as he goes into him.

After, Michael Darling drops three ampules into Peter's outstretched hand and leaves without a word. Peter tucks them securely down the front of his pants. He retreats deeper into the alley, again behind the pile of crates and garbage. A fire escape overheard offers a small shelter from the rain.

Peter slides into sleep, into deeper oblivion. There she is, of course, waiting. How do I get back home, he asks her in his dream. He hears tinkling, like glass bells far away, and in his head it sounds like she is saying goodbye.

A whisper

A breath

A word

They're dead.

A shadow

A shade

A look

They're gone.

Flying, Falling

Crying, Dying

Rising, Reaching

Found and Lost.

They speak softly

I softly speak.

I watch silently

They silently watch.

In the end, they're dead and gone.

The window is cold tonight, with all the fire in the streets, I thought it would be chilly. It truly was a beautiful day, you know, minus the mutilated flesh and exposed bone I had to escape from for the first half of the day, it was still strangely satisfying though. I just barely found this utility shed, thank Jed. The last few months I've questioned if this rain was ever going to stop. You know, i thought it was strange but today's been down right awkward, I think i'm prepared for anything now. I'm so tired, they keep knocking and i know they're going to get in. I don't know if I care anymore, I have to sleep. I know she's okay. 

-Journal

Everyone is scared. I'm scared and worried. They are here. The zombies, and I was stuck in my small school. Surprisingly, no one but a few small children that were easy to take care of dropped dead. None of the teachers were listening to us. I couldn't leave and go home. I can't find my parents. My friends are worried, and we were planning to escape together and go to each of our houses to get stuff, then stay at my house. I am worried, and I want it to be over, but I am afraid that it will not be over soon. My friends, Hazel, Taylor, Logan, Casper, Draco (his parents were big Harry Potter fans), and I escaped with a few kitchen knives as weapons, and hijacked on of the biggest SUV's in the parking lot while the zombies weren't as populated.  

We first headed to Logan's house, and loaded up the back of the car with nonperishable foods, and he packed a bag with clothes, and a bag with other stuff. Afterwards we headed to Taylor and Hazel's house, and packed their food, and headed on wards. Lastly we headed to Casper and Draco houses, as they are near each other, and did the same thing there. We finally headed out to my house in the boonies and everyone picked rooms. We are now entertaining ourselves and are surviving. So far, we have only encounter two or three zombies, but are probably will encounter more. My mom is not at home, and my dad was turned a zombie, and I had to kill him. I hope my mother is not dead, or a zombie, and I hope she is doing well. Wish us luck.

I'll write back soon.

-Katt 

IMPORTANT: If anyone finds this alone on the road, we're in big trouble and we need help or we're dead and are zombies.