“Remember,” a stern voice echoes over the intercom, “There is only one rule.”

I straighten my posture on the uncomfortable metal chair, and the male voice continues.

“No matter what you think you hear, no matter what you think you see, you cannot leave this room. Do you understand?”

I nod my head slightly, trying to ignore the unease thrumming alongside my heartbeat.

“If you understand, look at the camera and reply with a yes,” the man persists.

I exhale anxiously and shift my eyes to the camera in the left corner of the room.

“Yes,” I state firmly.

“Good,” the voice commends, “We will reconnect in 24 hours.”

Then, the intercom falls silent, leaving deafening stillness in its wake. I smooth out my pastel purple, knee-length dress and snort at the out-of-place clothing.

“Why did I choose to wear a dress today?” I murmur to myself, “I don’t even like dresses.”

I lean back in the stiff chair and stretch my arms to the ceiling.

The room is small. There is no decor, no human touch, just a white ceiling with white walls. The vinyl floors vary slightly with their light gray hue. However, the tone evokes no sense of warmth. There is no furniture in the room, save for the metal chair situated directly at its center, which I am presently sitting on. The chair faces a single metal door and—perhaps the room’s most unsettling feature—a large floor-to-ceiling window that spans the entire wall. Through the window, I can see every inch of the adjoining room, and appearance-wise, it is nearly the same, down to the empty metal chair in the center. The only difference is the presence of another metal door on the wall opposite of the window.

“Creepy,” I whisper playfully, unsuccessfully distracting myself from the unnerving scene.

At least I’ll be five grand richer soon. I saw the ad for the program last week on Instagram. I was skeptical at first, but after doing my due diligence I found that the offer was legit. It’s simple really. All I have to do is sit in a room for 24 hours. The research facility wants to study participants’ reactions to isolation, imprisonment, and to a lesser extent, claustrophobia. In fact, I had to abstain from drinking and eating the past 24 hours since the “blank room,” as the scientists call it, has no bathroom. Although I am extremely hungry and thirsty, I am willing to sacrifice my comfort for the $5,000 compensation. I am now a single mother with two young daughters and a soon-to-be ex-husband.

“Bastard,” I cannot help but mutter before shaking my head at the unwelcome thoughts.

I instinctively reach for my phone to check the time, but of course, the scientists confiscated it before I entered the blank room. Maybe this experiment should be a study about boredom instead.

A few hours pass by—I think—and nothing happens. Nothing at all. Soon, the monotonous environment, paired with my nutrient-deprived body, causes my eyelids to droop. I internally run through the experiment’s requirements, but there is only one rule. Don’t leave the room. So sleeping is fine, I guess. Plus, it’ll make the time go by faster. Satisfied with my reasoning, I nestle into the inflexible chair and pray for a long nap.

However, moments later—perhaps minutes or hours, I am not sure—something abruptly pulls me from unconsciousness. I sit up hastily and grimace at the soreness that blooms across my back from the rigid chair. Prompted by my body’s sudden influx of adrenaline, I hurriedly examine my surroundings. Why did I wake up?

Then, I see it. Through the window, the door on the opposite side of the adjacent room is moving. No, not the door. The door handle. It is moving up and down, slowly, methodically. Not like someone is trying to enter the room. No, it’s like someone is playing with the metal handle.

“That’s weird,” I laugh nervously.

While the scene is obviously creepy, I expected this kind of mischief. Why would the scientists give me full view of an empty room and then not display anything? They probably want to study how I react to the events.

Abruptly, the handle stops moving with its tip pointing to the ceiling, and somehow, that frozen position is even scarier. Anxiously, I laugh out loud again.

“Nice one,” I say directly to the camera.

Wide awake now, I decide to stand and stretch my cramped body. I present my back to the window for a moment, but the sense of vulnerability makes me quickly turn around again. The door handle is now back in its original position.

I frown and focus on myself instead and regrettably catch sight of my engagement ring. Blinding fury lights up my eyes.

“Why the fuck am I wearing this?” I hiss.

The small diamond sparkles, unaware of the tarnished relationship it now symbolizes.

“Infidelity,” I say coldly, “That’s all this tiny rock represents.”

Before my mind has time to pull me down that well-trodden spiral path, a thunderous boom whisks me back to reality. This time, it’s not the door handle that’s moving. It’s the door. And unlike the slow playful nature of the previous event, the door slams open, and in the entryway, stands a woman.

She has medium-length, wavy brown hair and light skin with an average build and average height. My heart skips a beat as I notice her outfit. Just like me, she is wearing a light purple dress.

I examine the stranger more thoroughly and then gasp as I come to a jarring conclusion. The person on the other side of the glass is not just a woman. She is… me.

I am barely breathing when the woman—or me, I don’t know—sprints to the window. Panic stretches her features as she slams both hands against the glass.

“Listen,” she speaks in a desperate tone, “This “experiment” is not what you think it is. I know you’re confused, but I don’t have a lot of time to explain. You just have to trust me, okay?”

I twitch as my back comes in contact with the wall opposite of the window. I didn’t realize I had been walking backwards.

“W-what?” I stutter in a small voice.

She regards me with sympathetic eyes laced with impatience.

“We are both in unimaginable danger. The only way we can escape is together. However, I cannot enter your room. It’s locked from the inside. You have to leave,” she urges.

“No,” I state firmly, “I’m not leaving.”

She exhales roughly, tears collecting in her eyes.

“The…” she begins, but freezes when a low growl emanates from the doorway behind her. Her eyes widen in knowing horror. I open my mouth to ask what the hell that noise was, but she rushes on, speaking with increased urgency.

“The money’s fake. You’re not going to get anything.”

“You’re lying,” I answer with forced confidence, “You’re trying to trick me.”

She glances at the open door behind her, sighs deeply, and then continues in an even tone.

“Look at what you’re wearing. You—we—hate dresses. You don’t even own a purple dress, right? Isn’t that weird?”

I consider her words and investigate the garment more closely. Do I own a purple dress? I shake my head. I’ve been very stressed. Perhaps I bought the dress as a fresh start and forgot.

“Also, how did you arrive at the facility?” she asks, “Did you drive here? Did someone drop you off?”

I open my mouth to reply but answer in a breathy sigh. I drove myself here, right? I cannot think of another explanation. Why do I not remember driving though? I swallow shakily. In fact, I cannot even remember how I entered the blank room.

“See,” she says softly, noticing my silent epiphanies, “This whole situation doesn’t make sense. We need to leave.”

Adrenaline fuels my conflicting emotions, and I stand paralyzed by the warring thoughts. This whole situation is unreal. The woman must be a part of the experiment, and my lapses in memory must be a result of my starved and dehydrated mind.

“I don’t believe you,” I finally answer.

“Please, we…” she starts before a louder inhuman snarl interrupts her.

She fixes her pleading eyes on me.

“Please,” she sobs.

My eyes burn in response to her raw emotions, but I don’t risk movement. I cannot trust her. It is all a part of the experiment.

Then, I see it, and noticing my suddenly ghostly pallor, the woman turns around.

As if born from the shadows, a bony, humanoid form emerges from the darkened room beyond. The hairless creature stands over eight feet tall and has tight, colorless skin that seems too small for its bones. The stretched skin accentuates all its joints and skeletal divots. It is naked and has no genitalia. Each movement elicits bone-crunching cracks accompanied by the sound of nearly tearing flesh. It has a bulbous skull and a flat face with no eyes, ears, or a nose. The only feature on its profile is an overly wide mouth filled with square, human teeth.

I watch in disbelief, still not trusting my senses.

“It’s not real,” I breathe, “None of this is real.”

Despite the being’s lack of eyes, it looks directly at me and regards me with a grotesque smile.

“It’s not real,” I repeat in horror.

Its grin grows wider, as if it can hear my words, and then, it redirects its attention to the woman.

She remains still, crouched in a flight or fight stance.

“There’s still time,” she speaks softly without removing her eyes from the monster, “You can still open the door.”

I shake my head even though she cannot see me; however, my silence is answer enough.

“Just remember that I tried,” she replies, defeated.

The creature steps forward with saliva gathering in its gaping mouth. In one swift movement, the woman lunges for the chair in the center of the room and hurls it at the creature. It easily dodges her attempt and steps forward once, then twice, then three times, bridging the gap between them.

She dashes for the open door but is too slow, and the being easily snatches her by that dreadful purple dress. With its free hand, it clutches her torso. She struggles to break free, but her efforts are futile. I try to look away but cannot as the monster reels its hand back, fingers splayed, and slashes her face diagonally from forehead to chin. Her screams pierce the fear-polluted air, and my already unstable legs collapse beneath me.

The creature delicately lifts the woman with one hand around her neck and the other on her abdomen and walks to the window.

Like a child showing off its favorite doll, the monster holds up the woman—me—to the glass. I cringe at the brutal wound now marring her face. She looks at me with her only remaining eye.

“I guess we deserve this,” she chokes wetly.

I have no time to comprehend her words as the scene before me unfolds rapidly. In one fluid motion, the creature moves its hand to the woman’s shoulders and then viciously severs her head with the other. I double over and dry heave as the sounds of broken bones and torn sinew replay in my ears. Cold sweat dots my forehead as I hesitantly return my eyes to the window. I gasp.

The creature is gone. The woman is gone. There is no blood. There is no evidence that anyone was in that room.

“What?” I say weakly, still nauseated from the traumatic scene.

Suddenly, the sound of distant commotion reaches my ears. Moments later, a man crashes through the door in the adjoining room shouting,

“Police!”

Disoriented, I lock eyes with the officer, and he yells through the doorway,

“I found her!”

He rushes to the blank room’s door but is unable to open it.

“Ma’am,” the policeman says in a calm tone.

I raise my hazy eyes.

“Can you open the door on your end?” he asks slowly.

I swallow. My eyes dart between the officer and the metal door. Images of the woman’s blood-stained face color my vision. The creature’s crooked grin insnares my mobility.

“It wasn’t real,” I murmur to myself as I drop my eyes to the floor, “None of this is real.”

I look up, half expecting the officer to disintegrate like an illusion, but he remains solid.

“Ma’am. I am here to help you. Your family has been looking for you for weeks,” the officer speaks compassionately.

“Weeks?” I echo in disbelief.

I rise on quivering legs.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now,” the officer says with a kind smile, “Help me help you.”

I look at the door. How long have I been in this room? Even if the woman wasn’t real, she was right. I don’t remember how I got here or why I am wearing this dress. Nothing makes sense.

I walk to the door and place my hand on the cold handle.

“That’s it,” the police officer reassures me on the other side, “You’re doing a great job."

I look behind me at the blank room, then at the camera positioned above my head.

“I don’t know what’s real anymore,” I say quietly.

Desperation guides my actions, and I watch as my hand opens the door. The caring-faced police officer greets me on the other side.

“You did wonderfully. Let’s get you home.”

He holds out a hand, and I cannot stop myself from accepting it and taking that step towards freedom. I release a heavy breath once I clear the threshold and turn to the officer with a grateful smile. However, my relief quickly shifts to horror as the man’s gentle face transitions into one dripping with evil intent. He blinks, revealing empty, pupil-less eyes. I stumble backwards, but he simply matches my action with a step forward.

“There is only one rule,” he speaks in an ominous tone, “And you broke it.”

“No, no, no,” I chant like a protective mantra.

He responds with a wicked smirk before harshly grabbing my wrist. Then, everything goes black.

I wake up on a metal chair, and, for a moment, I think I am back in the blank room.

“Good morning, sweetie,” a male voice oozes with false kindness, “I think you’ll want to see this.”

The sleazy voice grounds me in my surroundings. I am sitting beside the white-eyed man at a white desk with a single monitor and microphone. My heart stutters when I realize that the monitor is playing live footage of the blank room. I feel the man’s eyes on me, but I am unable to turn away from the screen as the creature from earlier enters the frame cradling the woman’s body and decapitated head.

Bile rises in my throat as I watch the monster viciously shove the woman’s head back onto her body. It washes her, mends her torn skin, and finally dresses her in a pristine purple dress. Denial rings in my ears as I watch her chest start to rise and fall. The creature smiles at the camera, at me, and then exits the room.

“Time for my favorite part,” the white-eyed man chimes.

On screen, the woman’s eyes flutter open and her slacken face adjusts slightly to reflect a disinterested one. I look at the man and he returns the favor with dark eyes. Then, he clears his throat.

“Remember,” he speaks in a professional manner, “There is only one rule.”

At those words, my mobility returns and I shoot up, clumsily moving backwards and tripping over the metal chair. From my position on the floor, the man finishes his introductory statement.

“If you understand, look at the camera and reply with a yes.”

A strangled cry emerges from my core as the woman looks at the camera and says “yes.”

The man ends the chat and turns his attention to me. My mind is a storm of emotions and questions, all fighting for release simultaneously.

“Where am I?” I eventually ask.

The man tilts his head.

“I thought that would be fairly obvious,” he replies.

My blank stare prompts him to continue.

“You’re in Hell, honey.”

“Hell,” I shake, “I-I don’t belong in Hell.”

“Oh, trust me. You do,” he responds nonchalantly as his eyes fall to my engagement ring.

I try to ignore the unclean feelings dancing beneath my skin.

“How long have I been here?” I ask instead.

The man abandons his chair and crouches beside me, caressing the nape of my neck.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to,” he whispers in my ear.

Before I have time to digest his words, he grabs my wrist and suddenly we are standing in front of a metal door.

“Have you figured out the game yet?” he inquires, “Here’s a hint.”

I watch as the white-eyed man places his hand on the door handle and slowly maneuvers it—up and down, up and down. Realization sharpens my foggy mind.

“I’m the woman on the other side of the blank room now,” I whisper.

“Yes,” the man drawls, “And the only way you can escape this infinite loop of torture is if you convince your other self to leave the blank room. You both must walk through this door together.”

I stare soundlessly in reply.

“Of course, you must accomplish your goal before my smiley friend joins the party,” he adds with a sinister half grin.

Unbridled despair and fear like I have never known before cascade through my body.

“W-who are you?” I quiver.

The white-eyed man smiles wildly.

“I think you know the answer to that,” he says simply before stepping away from the door, “See you soon.”

I glance at the door handle, then back to him, but he is gone.

Oppressive darkness taints my surroundings. So, with no other options, I heave the door open. And like some cruel version of deja vu, I sprint to the glass and meet my other self’s untrusting gaze.

“Please,” I begin, “You have to listen to me. We don’t have much time.”

Two miles south of nowhere there is a field of dying things,

silent save for the rasp of autumn grasses as they crash to the ground.

There is a girl here, too,

running a pink tongue along rusting guitar strings,

all ripped jeans and cloudy skies.

A man's name is tattooed across her clavicle,

blue ink pooling at the place her breath catches.

His name was Agony and he taught her to love,

to hold kitchen knives to heartstrings and pluck them like a symphony,

dancing barefoot on barnwood floors

until the splinters left scars.

His love was one of honey and shrapnel,

the kind of beauty that only comes with pain-

but the world is growing dimmer

and come dusk

she lies alone

in this place of dying things.

We bought a new house. It was my dad, mom, sister, and me. It had 3 bedrooms. I was the youngest. We started moving things in, but on that very day, my sister went missing. We saw her walk into the house, but she never walked out. We looked everywhere and couldn't find her.

The police were called. They looked at my parents suspiciously. I went looking around the house again, hoping I would find her. None of us thought she had run away, she had no reason to. She was a perfectly happy teen, spared from most of the drama teens experience. Her biggest problem was the occasional zit and those never lasted.

I walked around the house and felt it getting bigger. I knew how absurd that was, but I kept looking. In the hallway, I noticed that my sister's room had been blocked off. No, not by police tape. It was completely walled up. I knew it wasn't my parents. They had been with me all day and we had just gotten here and the last time we saw her, she was carrying things into her room. How was it completely walled off now? No one seemed to notice except me.

I started hearing noises coming from beyond the wall, like wailing. Suddenly, I was on the other side of the wall. It was dark and moist, there was like a fog, and where the room had been was a long hallway with a threshold on the far right. I walked down the hall up to the threshold and saw my sister's room. She was sitting, like in movies, on a chair facing the window across from the door. I heard her make a noise, but it didn't sound like her. A guttural sound between a growl and a scream began to form. I ran back the way I had come. I found myself on the other side of the wall again.

This time, there was about a 1-inch space between the floor and the wall. I could see a dim, bluish light, but I ran back into the kitchen where my parents were sitting with the police giving statements. When I had left, the police seemed to be looking at my dad more. By the time I came back, they were only minutes away from handcuffing my mom.

They did just that and took her. We all tried to calmly explain that she hadn't done anything, but the police weren't listening. I needed a private moment to tell my parents what I'd seen because the police would never believe it. They would sooner think we were all in on hurting my sister than believe that something seemingly supernatural was happening.

My dad left behind the police car to try to work something out, bail, etc. I stayed home alone, and while I tried to indicate what was going on, they didn't understand. It was almost midnight. I tried to keep myself busy, but I was too scared to go into any of the bedrooms, so I paced between the kitchen and the living room, trying not to look at the hallway that was peering at me from where my sister's bedroom door used to be. I kept my eyes firm on the floor beneath me, but the blue mist called me from the space between the wall and the floor.

I ran outside to see my father arriving. I quickly told him what was happening and he didn't seem to believe me. We walked into the kitchen. He had a blank look on his face, like he couldn't believe this was all happening and was trying to create an alternate reality in his mind. He wasn't listening to me. Just then, we heard a scream 10 times louder than what I had heard when I was alone. That snapped him out of his trance and I led him to the wall. We were a few feet away when I noticed the gap between wall and floor had grown and we could see two pale, gray, rotting feet beyond the wall.

"These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me (Matthew 15:8 NLT)."

Jesus didn't hold back on calling out the Pharisees when their actions did not reflect their claims that they followed God. If Jesus were to return today, he would do the same thing to those that could be classified as modern day Pharisees. Making a spectacle of praising God by speaking, writing, and worship is fairly easy. Taking it to heart and living a God honoring life by doing the things God actually calls us to do (not commands outside of God that Pharisees claim are His commands) is a bigger challenge. I want to be known as a Christian that doesn't just talk or write about it, but does the things God really requests, ultimately truly representing what He wants. If things are done this way, we would not give modern day Pharisees any more power. Lord, thank You for the reminder to not just talk the talk, but walk the walk too. Please help me to keep writing praises to You, and to also praise You with my heart by going out and living out the words I write (or talk) about. In Jesus' name I pray, Amen.

in this version of the story he is saying something with his hands and he is speaking to your body. in this moment you are the same as you were centuries ago. two lovers reaching for each other and seeing salvation at the other end. the paintings on the cave wall singing your praises in animal blood. in this breath you understand what the poets were writing about and realize you want no part of it. why mar the moment by contorting it into language? by pressing it into something it is not?

your hands grasp at the air and the air responds: i am art enough.

in this version of the tale you disregard an instinct. cast aside the desire to take everything you know and grasp it, trembling, drowning, until it confesses to you its poeticism.

there is glory in his heaving chest before you called it anything at all. before you knew it was a sinking ship, or the lifeboat on the other side of the ship, or the storm crashing against the walls of the ship, which is your room, which is a makeshift heaven.

your body and his body. you don’t want anything more. you don’t want the pen. you don’t want the god hiding in the ceiling guiding his hands.

tell me we’re enough. that in this moment we are the art. that in this moment we are unquantifiable and everywhere and no one can make us into a story. that i am the only one who will ever hear your song and understand.

yes, he says.

She had always known the rain was poison.

Everyone knew it.

They had gotten good at staying indoors, letting the flood subside before stepping out.

They had gotten good at hiding, turning off their lives to let the fear of something stinging skin and eyes hold them grounded in a lockdown.

They told each other horror stories.

They spread their fear as if sharing a feast.

She had always known the rain was poison, but she was beginning to wonder if she believed it.

So as she sat through thunderstorms and felt the call of wind and water pulling at her chest, as she listened to the symphony of life happening outside, without her, she began to slip away.

They were afraid for her.

They wouldn't let her forget it.

It was all they could do not her tie her down when the rain came, they were so worried she would let herself go.

They couldn't seem to understand that she would risk the holding cell of her security cracking under floodwaters that would drown her in a hissing of electrical poison pain, if it meant she could live with something more than the ache in her chest that grew and grew each time it rained.

And the rain came again.

And she opened the door.

They all screamed at her, no!

As if they cared.

But how could they claim to care as they stopped her from doing what she knew was right?

She stepped out.

The rain was cold and clear and lovely on her skin.

And for the first time, she was alive.

One might think an open mic comes with bongo drums and hushed whispers over a microphone. I certainly thought so last night when I joined a Zoom open mic. Maybe someone would lift up a plate of cookies, and even though not able to share, the Zoom group would understand that this should be an intimate, shared experience. One day, we can go back in person and trip over the microphone cord.

After some trouble logging in, I found myself staring into a Zoom meeting of nine other people. The majority of the people were older men, perhaps in their sixties and seventies. This surprised me. The host was a middle-aged woman who was exceptionally perky and extroverted. Let's call her Margaret.

Margaret started by reading a piece about her father on dialysis, taking place in a nursing home. When she read her piece, she read with enthusiastic fervor, and as I listened, I put together that she was making it comedy. I thought my first critical feedback without saying it out loud: this is going on for too long. It didn't make me uncomfortable, but it made me feel intelligent and seasoned as a writer to have feedback at all.

While Margaret had been speaking, the group chat in the Zoom call had blown up with comments from other writers, all simply quotes from her piece that had stood out to them. Over the course of the two hours I was at the open mic, this was what people did. When someone said something particularly profound, or something that resonated with others, they would type it out in the chat and follow it up by snapping their fingers together in solidarity. I contributed.

One young gentleman who joined later, not an older man, was an exceptionally talented poet. When it was his turn to go, he asked the other writers for three words. Three people shouted out: Salvador Dali. Orange. Clocks.

The poet, on the spot, created a poem using those three words. He tilted his head down, as if in slight prayer, or perhaps a trance. It was incredible. The group chat blew up with praise, and fingers were snapped with enthusiasm. This was art. An open mic, a true performance.

When it was my turn, I decided to read out a piece I wrote for Prose recently. It is called, "Crush". It was relatively popular on Prose, and I thought I'd share. As I spoke, I noticed the group chat was exploding with praise. One young gentleman, who had also joined late and was tuning in from the university close to where I lived, commented: "YESSS GET ON IT!!!!!" I was particularly flattered by this comment, and blushed deeply afterwards. This style continues to be my new foray into writing, and I was happy that it was so popular with strangers. It adds a new flare, being this open to real people, in real time, right in front of me - a tangible community I could make eye contact with, share with an added layer of vulnerability.

The next piece I read, after another round of everyone reading their pieces, was called "Lightning in a Bottle", which I had also written for Prose, this one months ago. While it had won the challenge on Prose, it didn't go over as well with the group - by a long shot. People just seemed depressed after I read it, and I wondered: maybe my new writing style is better. The loose prose I have dabbled in recently may be more relateable. The enthusiastic college student nodded, but did not contribute a comment to the group chat. Later, he read a piece about immigrating to the United States, and used extra flourishes with his hands. I was impressed with the way every performer put added inflections into their pieces when spoken aloud. They all, for the most part, used their hands.

When I signed off after two hours at the open mic, I was bummed about no one liking my second piece, but mostly grateful for the experience.

Zoom is an odd way to perform, but it's the new way. Perhaps I'm contributing something, touching someone. It's rewarding to see the expressions of others; I can only imagine now what they look like, merely reading what is posted to a website.

&even after your oblivion

after all those years of sickness

you have risen, a testament to

strengh; a fortress of self-containment

our relationship became one of missed opportunity

where I struggled to regain sanity, or

even had the capacity to cope with my anxiety

at a young age, we were so close to the proximity

of a healthier bond & a love that could have been

unconditional, but I writhed in my sick bed

in the hard days, towards a separation

&pictures on the mantel now taken down

I am ashamed to call myself your family,

as you have a heart of gold I cannot fathom

myself, a lost cause of best intentions,

dusty & poignant on that familial shelf

our relationship for now left on silent

there is something finite about

illness, an erasure of identity

but you always said

&and will say

you are not your depression

"I should have kissed you."

I scoff. As if that would have changed anything.

As if your lips, cold and unfeeling, could have ever warmed mine.

As if they could have ignited a love between us that wasn't there to begin with.

If you were to kiss me it would have been for the bragging rights.

The next night, when you're with your friends at the bar,

"We kissed, you know."

A memento to prove the shriveled heart inside of you still beats.

No, I don't want your cracked lips against mine.

Papa said you could tell a man was good by where he rested his hands when you kiss.

If he rests his hands on your face he wanted you.

If his hands traced your body he wanted what you had to offer.

You didn't want me at all.

That's alright, though.

I didn't want you either.

I called what we had "love," but such a title was manufactured.

Somewhere among the prodding of friends and pity of family I decided you were the one.

I couldn't stay single forever, could I?

So I tried harder. A puzzle piece that didn't fit with those around me.

But if I snip the edges... push just a little harder... I can make myself fit....

Can't I?

When I was little I wanted to be the princess.

To look at the sky from under a wedding arch, knowing I had found "the one"

Now?

Now I just want to be alone.

I suppose we never really "broke up."

We drifted, like ashes in the summer breeze.

No yelling, no fights... just that goddamn suffocating silence.

It scares me.

We used to fight because we felt like we had something worth saving.

When that stopped there was only the corpse of what could have been-

a grotesque, shriveled thing... helpless. Hopeless.

Like a butterfly within its glass case-

the one you found on the back shelf of the dollar store after forgetting my birthday.

I will not be your butterfly, limp wings pinned to dusty corkboard.

Your nets, societies vices, will not slam down upon my dreams.

I will be a flash of color in the corner of your eye.

Intangible.

Unstoppable.

Free.

There is a monster that sits at the foot of my bed. I do not name it, because that would only serve to make it real. You tell me it’s real, you call it names and I press my hands over my ears, refusing to believe you. You wish I would get help, but I don’t. Getting help would mean admitting the existence of this beast. It is not real, I tell myself repeatedly, but words start to sound meaningless the more you say them.

My monster is a shape-changer of sorts. There are days when it is nothing more than a little black dog, when I can pull a leash over its neck and drag it along behind me, when I can tie it to the chair as I get dressed and carry it with me to work. On these days, I can almost forget that it is even there.

There are the in-between days, when my monster turns into a wolf whose head reaches my shoulder, whose growl seems to rattle my entire body, whose yellow fangs glisten beneath pink and black gums.

It takes the two of us to wrestle it to the ground. We tie chains around its legs, when we have chains; we put a muzzle over its jaws, when we have a muzzle. These are the days when I can defeat my monster. I make it past the edge of my bed, through the door, into the kitchen. Sometimes I even get to work. But I am tired, exhausted from the fight to keep the beast under control. Even when we tie it down, it sits in the corner of my vision, salivating at the idea of its next meal.

And then there are the Black days. I call it this because, when I wake up, the monster has grown so huge that it envelopes the whole room and wraps its great shadowy fingers tightly around my body, strapping me to the bed. I fight and I kick and I scream as loud as I can, but even you can’t fight off the shadows on these days. They are too thick and twisted and contorted. You say you hold my hand, but on these days, I can’t feel it. A gaping Black hole yawns inside my body, threatening to swallow me completely, to erase the world from existence and to throw me into a place so deep I will never be able to get out. There are days when I believe this will happen.

And I think it would, were I alone on these days.

But you wait patiently, arms stretching towards me, waiting and waiting and waiting while the Black chews away at my spirit. You wait until it grows weak, and then we take it on together, side by side. I am grateful I do not have to fight my monster alone.

I like to believe that one day, we will kill it. Together.