Please, Let Me Apologize
Please, love, I’m not like other guys
who work up tears of crocodiles.
Please allow me to apologize
with a soliloquy that cries,
“Mea culpa, full-size with fries!”
Please, my dear, let me eulogize;
without forgiveness, my soul dies.
So, please, let me apologize,
not mythologize or spout lies.
Sincerely! See my solemn eyes?
Please, honey, let me monopolize
your ears with sorrow undisguised.
Do you want my plea notarized?
Here goes; I hope my spiel qualifies
For your forgiveness unqualified:
“O dear, my soul and I agonize
over guilt that could colonize
my heart forever, I hypothesize.
Forgive me, and let my soul rise.
I’m sorry! If only I could revise…”
Um, my stomach has butterflies
and I must stop. Please don’t chastise
or think I want to economize.
I forgot something, dear. Please advise:
Why do I need to apologize?
if i had to choose between
breathing and loving you
i'd use my last breath
to tell you that i love you
Love: Thine Destroyer
The first time I saw you my whole body seized!
Your gaze drew me closer like tides in the sea
Like a sweet summer breeze that brings life to the leaves
My heart beats like some thunder succumb to her pleas
Sweeped off my feet and now down on my knees
Begging you please!!
But a waste of my time...
Still I turn to my lines, and cut them up fine..
Cause comfort in blunder will be all that I find.
Where were the signs?
I must have been blind or stuck right behind, all of the barriers you would force me to climb
Still....For you, all I have is my love like the song by sublime
It's what I got!!!!
I Still get sick from the thought
You know what I've been through you know your my rock
Let's not get into the reasons we fought
I mean you called the cops
Thrown to the wolves and fed to the crocs.
But black says the pot to the kettle
Was too young to settle, I always would tell you
Or act like I had the busiest schedule
Still, you rocked my boat in the hopes of sinking my vessel
Wrote in my notes like my quotes lived through you, as if your their vessel
Thoughts of our fights back in forth in my mind they would wrestle
Thoughts of the times we would kiss how I️ miss every freckle
Thought of you just as my rose..till you ripped of the petals
If love is but a battlefield, where are my medals ?
Because I have fought for you just like a case in a court that was federal
Ignorance is but a bliss how I wish, I️ wasn’t your best fool...
That’s why im sorry to bug you, or just bust your bubble, your beauty it buckles and I was in trouble the moment you glanced at me ever so subtle
Knew I would fight for you till I bloodied my knuckles
You strongarmed my heart without any muscle
I am an insomniac
I keep losing track of what life is, lifeless..
That is always how I feel
Look for something real, but usually it is fake so I wait till they yank the reel
Stay concealed, from this point on emotions are what I can't reveal
Standing still, alone in this white abyss
Mindlessness, do not know the day or what time it is
Why is this?
Because of Vicodins, and now the cycle spins
"Addict" is what they title him
More like, lack there of....
Or simply her lack of love.....
I love privately. Pronoun, verb, adverb.
I don't love quietly, I don't love sheepishly.
I keep my love seperate from the rest of my reputation.
It's just professional.
I am repetitive without boring. Pronoun, verb, adjective, adverb, verb.
Like morning coffee, there's a daily dose of affection.
Predictable enough for security, but pleasantly routine.
It doesn't get old. It's made new each day, like bread.
My love is dramatic and loud. Adjective, noun, adjectives.
I declare my intentions and see them through.
I am explicit and clear, assertive and insistent.
My love is dominant within its bounds.
There is a curtain between my love and my life.
Everyone knows what's on the otherside of the divider,
but the details are diffused.
As they should, there are somethings that are best as secrets.
My love thrives in privacy away from flashing lights and peering eyes.
A greenhouse, an incubator, a simple space for growth.
It glows and radiates from me.
I project my satisfaction and contentment into my life.
It doesn't go unnoticed, but most people
know better than to point it out.
After all, jokes and magic tricks are best left unexplained.
Better to be blinded by mystery than underwhelmed by the details
peanut butter pie
tumbled down with
tangled hair but you don’t care
for the pleasantries. no, you
are the special kind,
the only kind that understands
me. that draws my emotions out and helps me breathe
when i have pulled tight the drawstrings of the
sweatshirt you bought for me on sale.
but we are not a bargain.
we are the real stuff, like the label half-ripped off
of the peanut butter jar announces. from which i make you
your favorite pie the first day of every month
and even though you know, you act surprised each time just for me,
kissing me with oreo-crust-lips and smearing pie filling onto my nose.
yesterday you made me chocolate cream pie.
I want memories with you
I missed you, did I ever tell you that?
We hadn’t talked in over a month, and stubborn as I am, I didn’t call. I didn’t text. I didn’t even say hi. But, that’s how it always is isn’t it. We both know I’m not a gryffindor. I don’t have a single grain of courage, and somehow that applies to picking up a phone and typing a message. Maybe that’s why we work so well together, you make up for my stupidity, stubbornness, and lack of courage. I missed that.
Go to sleep, eat your dinner, do your homework..!
I’m not your mom, much as I sound like it sometimes. But, you have to sleep. No, I’m not trying to get you off the phone. I could talk with you until 6 am the next morning, but it’s almost midnight. You have a test. You need rest. And, I see it in your eyes, fluttering, struggling to stay open. You’re tired, go to sleep. Goodnight, I....
“I adore you.”
Shut up. LALALALALALA!! I can’t hear youuuuu. Yeah sorry, I can’t take a compliment. Don’t spite me please. You know what, I adore you too, everything about you. You’re the most wonderful person my presence has ever been graced with in my menial existence. HA, how do you like that? I adore YOU.
I actually do adore you.... it wasn’t just sarcasm
I hope that you know I wasn’t joking. Sure, it was sarcastic, to counter what you said about me. But, that’s how it is with us. We just skip around with sarcasm, and debates, and silly arguments. I hope you know, I mean what I say sometimes. Not when I say you’re rude, not when I say I hate you, not when I say you’re mean to me. I never mean that. Everything you do is endearing, it lifts my spirits every day I talk to you. It’s not always sarcasm.
You’re my best friend.
I have nothing to say but that, you’re my best friend. Through everything my own brain and my own thoughts put me through, somehow you’re always there. I don’t believe in the glorified Hollywood idea of best friends where you just have a single friend, and that’s the only person you always talk to, and have an eternal bond with secret meeting places. But, if that were to exist, I’d want to have that with you. I’d want to do all the stupid stuff with you. Sneak out of the house, go to prom, build a treehouse, share a college dorm together, go on a road trip together, scream lyrics at the top of our lungs, get drunk when we’re 21, go to a karaoke club for all I care. I want memories with you.
I don’t know how else to say it. And no, it’s not a traditional way to say it. But, I don’t care. I missed you, take care of yourself, I adore you, it’s not sarcasm, I want memories with you.
The Demon’s Wish
I wish I could be braver. More hopeful, more confident, more willing to charge into the fire.
Demons aren’t supposed to want, to wish. Demons are created to follow orders, to march like soldiers, to cut souls down and douse them in flames. Demons are made to be ruthless, soulless creatures, their only emotions thriving off the fear and anguish they inflict.
I think they must have forgotten a piece when they made me. A big piece.
I trudge through my duties like a ghost, torturing souls and ending lives with no passion for it. The demons around me wield their emotional massacres like medieval knights on a battlefield, imbued with a soul-satisfying, deeply embedded knowledge that they were made to do what they’re doing.
I envy the surety of their minds.
Passion and confidence are something I’ve never felt. I stride awkwardly through the ranks, copying those in front of me and occasionally glancing back to make sure I look like the demon behind me. As living souls say, I “fake it till I make it”. As the next plague commences, I wonder if I will ever make it.
I look to the sky, towards heaven, and feel lost there too. Angels would never accept a demon into their ranks ever since Lucifer fell.
I feel torn between worlds, a halfling of a half-life.
Torturing souls isn’t what I’m meant to do, but neither is saving them.
The fights pass, the anguished souls never standing a chance against our psychological war of horror. Days, years...then centuries. Every new target another chance at changing apathy, passing each time as their souls turn to dust in the flames. I yearn to feel a part of something, to feel connected to something.
After decades of copying and half-hearted condemnations, I am chosen to carry out solo missions. Most targets require a host of demons as the targets are usually older, adults who have only the beginnings of evil and need persuasive presence to descend fully into the darkness from which we will claim their souls.
The apathy and faking have paid off, and I have been promoted to solo demon, leader of a lone mission to corrupt a child. Children are inherently young and fully innocent, fully impressionable, an easy target yet a difficult one to fully turn. These targets are only given to the most experienced of demons.
Yet again, I feel like an apathetic imposter. The promotion gives me no source of joy in my colorless life, and I’m unsure why they would have chosen me for this.
They tell me her name, send me to her town, and instruct me to corrupt her.
Here in this wilderness of animals and forests, I hone in on my target, a young girl with strawberry-blonde hair and the most charming of freckles spattered across her cheeks.
I set about corruption, facing her with her father’s loaded rifle, a gas stove waiting to be lit, a discarded mound of dry hay and a waiting match. Literal child’s play, easy as pie to corrupt yet difficult to discern what will be the deciding factor. Children are intuitive and far more intelligent than adults give them credit for. They will often stick to their morals faster than a 90-year-old Christian. But this strawberry-blonde defied all my apathetic ambitions. When faced with the rifle, she unloaded it and locked it in its cabinet, tucking its key back into her father’s desk, assuming it had been left out by accident. The gas stove primed for a destructive explosion became a saving grace when she realized the gas had been running too long and saved her mother from lighting it. The dry hay bales with a waiting match fluttered in the summer breeze, and exploded with gales of laughter as she launched herself into it and built a palace out of straw.
Over and over I tried new approaches, my apathy waning as I put forth real effort for the first time in my existence. Each one failed, more spectacularly than the last. The girl was full of kindness, unselfish to her very core, and always putting those around her before herself.
It was maddening.
Months passed, the girl growing towards her next year and my time running out. If I didn’t turn her, a team of demons would be sent in to finish the job, and I would be banished to the pits, a lifeless expanse of darkness that permeates you to the very core until you go insane.
Exhausting all my efforts, I turned in frustration to the closest living creature, a small rabbit intent on a bed of grass nearby her playing field. I willed my legs to stretch as I grew into a predator, growing sharp fangs and gray hair, calloused pads budding beneath my four paws, a low guttural growl sounding from my throat. The rabbit’s right ear twitched in my direction.
I pounced. The fresh taste of blood flooded my mouth, and I gave a slight twist to the bunny’s neck, feeling the life draining from its panicked eyes.
The commotion was enough to attract the girl’s attention and she came running, her tiny figure waving sticks at me and shouting to scare me away. My wolf form slinked back, letting her run her course and watching with curiosity to see what she would choose. Would her kind nature take over and try to save the doomed rabbit, or would she succumb to darkness under the guise of being kind and take its life to spare it from further misery?
I fell back behind the bushes, ready for my final plan to take hold in her corruption. Any sane person would see that the rabbit was beyond help and would endeavor to end its suffering.
The child fell to her knees beside the ailing creature, its furry chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes wild with fear. She gasped, and I reminded myself this would be one murder of many in her life. Her tiny hands cupped together, gently scooping the rabbit up into her palms as her eyes brimmed with tears.
I knew I had her.
As a wet drop slid down her freckled cheek, the bunny stared at her with an all-consuming fear, as if begging her to end its pain. Their eyes met, brown to brown, soul to soul, and her shaky demeanor turned to determination.
She stood, slowly, careful not to jostle the rabbit, and started walking purposefully towards her house. All the while whispering solace to the bunny, ensuring it she would take care of it and help it back to health.
Shocked but not surprised, my demon self followed her back to her house, watching her build a bed for the bunny and give it a dropper of liquids, solo drop by solo drop. I felt certain she would lose faith when the bunny died and her soul would be mine.
Daily my certainty lessoned as her ferverence and protection healed the little animal, its nose twitching and eyes regaining spark as its neck slowly healed. A month later, and it was hopping around. Two months, and she set it free. I was astounded, my apathy replaced by shock and questioning. I had been told every human can corrupt absolutely, that every mark was achievable, that every soul had its darkness. The child had hers, to be sure, but she wielded it with strength and conviction, embracing the darkness to achieve a greater good.
My will steeled as I knew the end approached. I knew I had failed, and the other demons would be arriving soon to try to finish the job, ganging up on her defenses until she crumbled to their will. Yet for the first time, I felt something. I felt confused, and the conviction to find out why this uncertain thing had happened, why this girl had showed so much steel in the face of adversity. And for the first time in my existence, I felt passion. I felt.
When the demons arrived, I faced them down, defeating them one by one, letting them dissipate into ash to be tortured in darkness for eternity. I felt such a stirring at the one sight of defiance that I had to protect it, to learn about it. One by one, the demons came at me with their weapons of fire and destruction, and one by one I struck them down, adamant that nothing should harm the one good soul I’d met in centuries of despair.
When the fighting was over, the girl was in the same spot, watching the now healthy bunny run around the grassy yard, unaware that anything had happened, that I had just fought a battle for her soul, and by so doing, excommunicated myself from the demons forever.
Not a demon, not an angel. I didn’t care who I was, as long as I could protect this sweet soul who had showed me there was hope, who had disrupted my sense of apathy and taught me to feel.
The demons abhorred me and disowned me; the angels could not accept me for the evils I had done. I was once again lost in the midst, floating through a societal limbo, yet finally I felt free, at peace. I felt I had done something that mattered. The girl’s determination had startled me out of my apathetic centuries of existence, showing me that hope and passion could endure past all obstacles if one was a warrior.
So I determined to be her own warrior. I put on my imaginary armor and determined that I would be braver, for her. She gave me hope that the world was not yet completely lost, and through that I gained confidence in my abilities. I stepped into the fires of evil so she would not have to walk through them. I devoted myself to protecting her life and watched her become a doctor, saving lives instead of ending them as my fellow demons had predicted. I watched with something akin to pride as she devoted her life to embracing her kindness and darkness equally, changing life after life with her hope and compassion and uncompromising honesty.
She gave me passion and a reason for existing.
I defied my own kind to protect her from the forces around her that threatened her existence more than I ever could.
I felt stronger, more confident with each evil being I struck down, with each life she saved instead of ended. My apathy was gone, my reason for existence extended. I was not meant to be a demon, nor an angel. I could not enjoy destroying, yet I could not guide to salvation. I was on my own, a rogue protector, devoted to the one hope I ever saw in the world.
I was the guardian demon, a being of my own making, saved by her hope and defiance.
The Color Of...
Love's first blush upon pale cheeks
Ballet slippers with matching tights
Marches for women's rights
Every time I breath I’m filled with the heavy scent of her perfume, but its only heavy in my mind. In reality, only a faint trace of her is left on my pillow case which I refuse to surrender. And maybe she was right. It hurt too badly to hold on when the earth is so polar, rejecting my protest of forever. She’s still my deepest craving after all this time.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I love you.”
Every time. Every time I close my eyes my mind is flooded with the image of the soft moonlight pouring over her striking features. Every time I hear the first chords of our favourite song my heart weeps because I can’t dance with her at 2:00am in the refridgerator light. Every time my god damn heart beats it breaks a little more knowing that sometimes love isn’t enought.
“I love you, too.”
Ode’ to a Narcissist
By: Leah Pryor
Confusion is my daily bread,
The man I love inside my head.
Love him or hate him
I cannot say.
Do you love cool weather on a summer day?
His wrath is ravaging.
His demeanor demanding.
His logics insulting,
His laughters infectious,
His lovemaking stupendous.
His smiles contagious.
On eggshells I walk most of my time,
Afraid to say what's on my mind.
Afraid to invite others to see,
The hell I've created...
Tailored for me.