Your eyes were the first thing I feared before I even saw your body.

The desperate hunger of a soul

that had not seen daylight in years.

I never thought that a light could go out in a person still breathing.

I would wander the night

trying to make hazy the strong bite of loss you filled in me that soulless night,

some years ago now.

You still have entrance to my mind.

I still remember your eyes.

I still remember the words

you spoke before you took.

And most of all

I remember

that woman,

who once was me,

became not me.

That is the tragedy of most takings.

It ends the very parts of you,

you didn’t know you loved.

It hardens your fingers.

They dig into ground,

lest you be lifted towards clouds full of thunder.

Where there is no right, there is no wrong.

Only the loud, painful truth,

that you were once whole

and now,

you are not.

you’ve

gone

hastened

the sun

to devour

the moon

yet i linger

within

your hourglass

cadence

drip me

silvern

drop me

blank

write me

anew

je t'adore

Once Upon A Time -

One and Two and Three and Four and Five and Six and Seven and Eight and Nine and Ten and Eleven and Twelve and Thirteen and Fourteen and Fifteen and Sixteen and Seventeen and Eighteen and Nineteen and Twenty and Twenty-One and Twenty-Two and Twenty-Three and Twenty-Four and Twenty-Five and Twenty-Six and Twenty-Seven and Twenty-Eight and Twenty-Nine and Thirty and Thirty-One and Thirty-Two and Thirty-Three and Thirty-Four and Thirty-Five and Thirty-Six and Thirty-Seven and Thirty-Eight and Thirty-Nine and Forty and Forty-One and Forty-Two and Forty-Three and Forty-Four and Forty-Five and Forty-Six and Forty-Seven and Forty-Eight and Forty-Nine and Fifty and Fifty-One and Fifty-Two and Fifty-Three and Fifty-Four and Fifty-Five and Fifty-Six and Fifty-Seven and Fifty-Eight and Fifty-Nine and Sixty and Sixty-One and Sixty-Two and Sixty-Three and Sixty-Four and Sixty-Five and Sixty-Six and Sixty-Seven and Sixty-Eight and Sixty-Nine and Seventy and Seventy-One and Seventy-Two and Seventy-Three and Seventy-Four and Seventy-Five and Seventy-Six and Seventy-Seven and Seventy-Eight and Seventy-Nine and Eighty and Eighty-One and Eighty-Two and Eighty-Three and Eighty-Four and Eighty-Five and Eighty-Six and Eighty-Seven and Eighty-Eight and Eighty-Nine and Ninety and Ninety-One and Ninety-Two and Ninety-Three and Ninety-Four and Ninety-Five and Ninety-Six and Ninety-Seven and Ninety-Eight and Ninety-Nine and One-Hundred and One-Hundred-and-One and One-Hundred-and-Two and One-Hundred-and-Three and One-Hundred-and-Four and One-Hundred-and-Five and One-Hundred-and-Six and One-Hundred-and-Seven and One-Hundred-and-Eight and One-Hundred-and-Nine and One-Hundred-and-Ten and One-Hundred-and-Eleven and One-Hundred-and-Twelve and One-Hundred-and-Thirteen and One-Hundred-and-Fourteen and One-Hundred-and-Fifteen and One-Hundred-and-Sixteen and One-Hundred-and-Seventeen and One-Hundred-and-Eighteen and One-Hundred-and-Nineteen and One-Hundred-and-Twenty and One-Hundred-and-Twenty-One and One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Two and One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Three and One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Four and One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Five and One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Six and One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Seven and One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Eight and One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Nine and One-Hundred-and-Thirty and One-Hundred-and-Thirty-One and One-Hundred-and-Thirty-Two and One-Hundred-and-Thirty-Three and One-Hundred-and-Thirty-Four and One-Hundred-and-Thirty-Five and One-Hundred-and-Thirty-Six and One-Hundred-and-Thirty-Seven and One-Hundred-and-Thirty-Eight and One-Hundred-and-Thirty-Nine and One-Hundred-and-Forty and One-Hundred-and-Forty-One joined forces as collective Protagonists and, despite an epic struggle, resolved to defeat their Antagonist -

The End.

My Grandma gave me cosmetics for the holidays.

I loved my Grandma, and I shouldn't have been surprised considering we only see her once a year. I didn't hate wearing makeup, I was usually just too lazy to put it on.

Grandma did not skimp out that year. She got me a full (and possibly slightly expensive) bag for everything, despite not being able to fit it all, packed to the brim with eye shadow, blush, hair care, and a small container of mint lip gloss.

Because I didn't want it to just rot away in my room, I took a few minutes in the mornings before school to put on some eye shadow and lip gloss. Honestly, I thought it makes me feel more awake, just poking my eye with colors at 6:30 in the morning.

My friends noticed it, of course, because I only ever put on makeup for Halloween or special occasions.

On a day I had gray eye shadow on, my friend said to me "I like your makeup Jill! Wait are you wearing makeup or are you just tired?", which, although a fair statement, is not one I appreciate.

My life didn't rapidly change or anything, just sometimes received a comment from friends about not looking like a walking corpse.

But it was different in mid-February when a girl I had never spoken to came up to me.

"Mint?" She smiled as if she asked me something comprehensible.

I eloquently responded with, "Huh?", as one does.

She laughed and tapped her lips. "Mint lip gloss, right?"

"Yeah," I was shocked. By this time of day, all traces of it had usually vanished. "How'd you know?"

"Oh, you know." She waved it off. "Hey, you're in my math class, right? Did you understand Mr. Thompson's homework?"

Her name was Sally, and we started talking after that. She would find me at lunch, or whenever we had free time in math, and just start talking to me. It was a bit off-putting at first, but after three weeks I had gotten used to her presence.

The still cold March weather was getting to be one day, and I was shivering despite having on a thick sweater. Probably because they didn't bother heating the cafeteria.

"Hey, Jill!" Sally was suddenly next to me. The first few times she did that, it startled me, but I was expecting it.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Just really bored today." She sighed and laid her chin down on the table. "Do you want to come over today after school or something?"

I shrugged. I had nothing going on, and I had to admit I was curious about Sally's house. "As long as you have heating, I'm in."

She perked up. "Great! I can drive us there right after school if you're fine with that."

At 2:43, we were in her driveway. I remember the time so clearly because my mom texted me then if I needed anything from the store. I forgot to text her back.

Sally pulled out a key a opened the door, pushing me inside.

Her house was strange. Not like 'covered in blood and guts' strange, but it threw me off how fake everything looked. Like a house, you would see in a commercial for insurance.

"Just throw your bag anywhere, and make yourself comfortable! Do you want hot chocolate or tea?"

I sat down on the couch. It was stiff. "Hot chocolate."

She nodded and walked into the kitchen. Sally couldn't have been gone for more than seven minutes, but it felt like I sat there for hours. There was no noise from anywhere in the house, except for my own occasional breathing.

She walked back in with two mugs and handed me one before sitting next to me.

"I assumed you would be alright with whipped cream and sprinkles on it."

"Of course. I'll never say no to sweets." I laughed but felt weird having a tall sugar-filled cup while her mug looked so plain. I took a sip, and it wasn't as sweeter as I expected, tasting more bitter than anything.

"Do you want to work on homework or something? I'll help you with math if you help me with history."

Sally grinned and stood up. I had never seen her smile that wide. "Yeah," She set her mug on the coffee table. "Let's go up to my room."

I only had gotten halfway through my drink, but I couldn't say anything about it, because as soon as I had risen, I fell straight to the floor, shattering the mug.

"Oops." I could only hear her. My head couldn't move from the floor. "I was hoping you would set the mug down before the effects took place." Despite not having any recently, I swore that I tasted the strong after taste of almonds in my mouth.

Fingers grasped my chin and lifted up my throbbing head. Sally was blurry but clear as she kneeled in front of me, barely avoiding the spilled drink and shards.

She ran a finger over my lips and sighed. "Aw, I guess your mint lip gloss was rubbed off."

I’m worried that because most of my writing is me venting my frustration and or depression, that everyone thinks this is how I am in person.

I keep all of my thoughts and emotions inside and to myself. I don’t go around whining about everything that’s wrong or every ache and pain in my life.

Im the person that everyone else calls to vent to or talk about their problems with because they know I don’t discuss with others and I try to help with good advice.

I guess internally I am sad and angry at how the way my life has turned out, because this is not the life I wanted, but that doesn’t keep me from still trying to help others be happy or make a positive post on Instagram.

so just know if I’m being a downer here I’m just venting.

You cannot be successful if you do not serve something.

You cannot enjoy that which you fight against.

You will not be rewarded if you put yourself above others.

You will never know true love if you are guarded and unwilling.

You will incur judgement if you think yourself a master.

We are here to serve, and to work.

We all have a place that is under something greater.

It is your job to recognize that place and be honest about your role to others.

Resistance is futile.

Anya sat by the river every day, watching the clear water flow on its own, traveling through the quiet valley. The sky was cloudless, the gentle spring breeze playing with the strands of Anya's hair.

Anya came to this secret place of hers, always bringing a bag with her. She took out the pieces of paper from the bag: red, purple, orange, pink, and yellow. There was no particular reason behind the choice; Anya just liked the colors.

Anya made flowers out of the paper she brought with her. Anya enjoyed her solitude, folding the paper gently to resemble a flower shape.

Anya's mother taught her how to fold the paper into the beautiful shape of a flower. It was a delicate process that required concentration and patience.

"It doesn't matter if you try and fail." The most important thing is the effort you put forth. The results will come gradually," is what Anya's mother used to say to her when she was frustrated about not folding the paper right.

"But, mom, what if I never get it right?" Anya didn't want to disappoint her mother, who always took the time to sit with her and play with paper.

"Oh, honey, don't worry. No matter how long it takes, I'm sure you'll do it. And even if you don't, that won't change anything. I'll always love you and support you; remember that."

Anya returned to the present. Those memories resurface when she's by the river, making paper flowers. It seemed like an eternity since Anya first started this little hobby of hers.

No, not a hobby. It was a ritual that she shared with her mother—an unspoken promise made between a mother and a daughter.

It was the only thing left that still connected Anya to her mother. She never gave up making paper flowers, even in the toughest of times.

The paper flowers that she let float on the water's surface were Anya's way to feel close to someone dear to her—to someone who's no longer physically there.

However, her mother's gentle touch guides Anya even now as she sits by the river in her own little world.

Anya's mother is there, in those paper flowers that Anya so lovingly creates.

As soon as the door opens, I bolt into the closet to avoid being seen. I do this every time Lilian comes home, but today it’s even more important. She’s mad. I can’t tell who she’s yelling at yet, but I can hear crying.

“Would you stop?! You know who I am!”

“No, I don’t!” she says, crying even harder. I can see her now; she's a little girl, and she looks to be six or seven.

“I am your mother! Stop playing around Ashlynn, or you’ll be going to bed early tonight.” I could tell how exasperated she was, but Lilian doesn’t have a daughter. She’s thirty-two, and has never been married, or been in a relationship long enough to have a child.

The little girl quiets gradually, and when she finally forces herself to stop crying, she says, “My name is not Ashlynn, it’s Eva, and I think you mixed me up with your own child. My mommy’s name is Helen, and my daddy’s name is Robert. I live on-” but Lilian cuts her off.

“Your name is Ashlynn, I am your mother, and your father died two months ago!” She screams the last bit, and Eva starts crying again.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. It’s probably the landlord, coming for the monthly check. Lilian goes wide-eyed, but walks toward the door. “Go sit in the living room, Ashlynn.”

She smooths her dress and opens the door. “Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

When he comes in, I see that it’s a police officer. “Ma’am, we got a call a few minutes ago, saying that one of your neighbors saw something moving in here, and you weren’t home yet.

Would you mind if I take a look around real quick?” But he’s already walking in before she can nod her answer.

Doesn’t he realize that there’s something wrong with Lilian? She’s a wreck, and it’s only going to get worse.

I’m the one who was seen in here earlier. I sometimes come in here and try on my old clothes that Lilian never got rid of. It makes me feel real, since I died two months ago. I’ve been watching over her, making sure she’s alright. Lilian and I were together for two years.

Before I died, she told me that I was the only man she ever loved. There is definitely something going on with her, though. She didn’t used to be like this.

I always loved taking Lilian places, and spending time with her. She was a little uncertain of our relationship at first; she wasn’t very open with her feelings. But after a while, everything seemed so natural.

But Lilian never wanted a child. She specifically told me that when I would bring it up, hoping she’d change her mind. I don’t know where she found that little girl, but she seems to actually think her name is Ashlynn, and that I’m her father.

After looking all through the house, he goes into the living room, and sees Eva. She looks scared, so he sits down cautiously. “Hello," he says, "And who might you be?”

She just stares, and doesn’t say anything, probably thinking that Lilian was going to freak out again if she says Eva.

“It’s alright. You can tell me. What’s wrong?” Nothing. “Can you tell me your name?” Still no answer.

He takes out his spiral pad and a pen and hands it to her. She takes it, but doesn’t write anything down.

Lilian comes in, carrying coffee. “What’s going on?” she says suspiciously, looking back and forth between the two.

“Is this your daughter?” he asks, looking at Eva the whole time.

Lilian is silent for a moment. “Yes, of course, she’s my daughter. Why else would she be in my house, on my couch?” she asks him defensively.

“Ma’am, she looks terrified, and there is nothing in this house that suggests a child lives here. I’m going to have to ask you to go stand in the foyer for a few minutes while I talk to the girl.” He turns to Eva as Lilian walks away.

“Now, I want you to tell me your name, so we can get you back to your real parents. Can you tell me?”

She stays quiet for a moment, and then recites what she tried telling Lilian earlier. “My name is Eva. My mom’s name is Helen, and my dad’s name is Robert. We live in a neighborhood called White Springs, and I was at the playground when she-” She looks up at Lilian, who is now crying. “She came over to me and picked me up, calling me her baby, like I was her daughter. I don’t know her though, please help me.” She talks so quickly he has to scribble to keep up.

“Okay, Eva. Do you know your parents’ phone number? Or your address?” She shakes her head no.

“I’m sorry.” She pauses. “I'm still going home, right?” She actually looks scared that he’ll say no.

“Of course you will. I’ll be right back.” he tells her, and walks into the foyer to talk to Lilian. “Can we go outside and talk?” he asks her, eyeing the door.

“Sure.” She looks upset, like it’s actually her daughter who is about to be taken from her.

~

Before I died, Lilian was put in a mental hospital to care for her, and to fix her. They said that she was experiencing a break from reality, caused by the loss of a loved one. They don’t know about me; no one does, but they know that her dad died earlier this year.

She broke down at least once a day, being trapped in a small room alone, aside from her once a day therapy session. Lilian is considered one of the dangerous ones in this place.

I visit her everyday, and most days, I stay all day. She started talking to herself more and more frequently, which the doctors found concerning, but she was trying to talk herself through everything that had happened.

And then- well, then, she started talking to me, too. She told me she was sorry, that she loved me so much, that she wanted to see me- just one more time, if that’s all she could.

She just wanted a chance to apologize, to make it up to me for what she did. I never spoke back, but I listened, whenever she needed it.

~

About two months ago, Lilian was still grieving her dad’s death, and I came over to her house to comfort her. She seemed to be telling herself that he was coming back, that he just went to the store, and took a detour, that he got lost, that he was getting directions, on and on until I tried to tell her that he was gone for good.

Lilian had been my everything, so I wanted to help her feel better, to move one, even if she still missed him. But she shut down, stopped talking to me. And I know I shouldn’t have, but I left. She kept telling me I couldn’t help her, and that I was worthless, that if she had been with her dad more instead of me, he would still be here.

I had given up on talking to her for the week, but then I saw her walking in the park. Out of impulse, I went up to her, asked if we could talk. She tried to walk away, but I followed. She ignored me all the way back to her house, even when I tried telling her that I loved her, that I would always be there for her, that she could tell me anything she needed to get out of her system. But she slammed the door on me,

I could tell she wasn’t okay, and I still had a key to her house, so I went in. She was in the kitchen, starting to make dinner. “Sit down.” she said. I looked at her questioningly. She looked straight through me. “What are you waiting for?! I said sit!”

So I sat. She rushed around the kitchen, banging pots and pans and gathering ingredients that made no sense together. I stood up.

“Lilian, are you alright?”

“I told you to sit down!” She was screaming at this point.

“Lilian, listen to me, Please, just talk to-”

“No! I said sit down! Stop telling me that everything is fine and that it’s going to be okay, and that everything I’m feeling is normal! I lost my only living parent, the only person who ever cared about me! I! Am! Alone! But you wouldn’t get it, because everyone cares about you! Just get out of my life!”

“Lilian, you need help. You can’t live like this. I’ll go if that’s what you want, but then you would be really alone. I love you, Lilian. I always will, and I’m so glad I have you. I don’t want to lose you. I need you.” I’m crying but she doesn’t seem to care.

She pauses, silent, except for the sound of her breath hitching as she cries. “I love you too, Jack.”

I move toward her, and wrap my arms around her. We stay there like that for a while, just hugging her, crying, while I tell her how much I love her.

I whisper, “He may be gone, but you can still talk to him whenever you want to.” Her eyes go wide, and she gets mad again, shoving me away.

“He’s not gone! He’s coming back! He would never leave me!” She’s back to screaming, “I know he’s not gone. You’re both just pranking me. He’s on vacation somewhere. That’s where he’s been! That’s why he’s been gone! Don’t lie to me!”

She picks up the cutting board off the floor, washes it, and starts haphazardly chopping onions and other vegetables.

“Be careful, you’ll hurt yourself. Do you want me to do it instead?” I ask, hoping she’ll put the knife down before she cuts herself. I walk toward her slowly. “Honey, come relax for a few minutes. I grab her arm gently, trying to ease her out of whatever came over her, like I did before. “Lilian. Lilian, I need you to talk to me.” With my other hand, I gently take her wrist, the hand she’s holding the knife with.

She seems to cooperate, but then her eyes go wide, and she realizes what I’m doing.

“Lilian, please, just calm down.” I tighten my grip just in case, but she’s faster than me. She slips out of my hold, and walks around to the other side of the island countertop.

“Lilian! Please, Lilian! We can work through this. You will be alright. I’ll get you someone to talk to. We can even go together if you want. I love-”

But she charged at me, and everything went black as my head hit the counter and I fell to the ground.

When I woke up, I could float, and go through walls, and no one could see me. I don’t blame her for what she did. She was hurt- and something was going on. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t herself. I don’t think she ever will be again.

I watch her now, and she doesn’t seem happy, but she seems at peace. And I’m happy for her. She’ll make it. Even if I didn’t.

That the term INCEL

Has become associated with...

"mass murder"

Is shocking

And horribly sad.

This is not a poem.

This is my take.

Many young men in western society, especially in America.

Are facing a crisis.

They are left on their own. With no tools.

No family, no mentors.

No fathers.

And then they are told

That they must be more feminine...

More submissive

More gentle

If they are to survive

When the truth

Is precisely

The opposite

Boys who are never able to

Never allowed to

Grow up

Who are medicalized

Pathologized

Told they are evil

For simply

Existing

Will obviously

Turn into

Monsters.

If you beat a dog

And corner it

It will bare its teeth.

Frightened

Weak

Broken young men

Are the ones who commit violence

And destroy themselves

Strong men

Raised by

Strong Fathers

Make for a strong society

A strong people

If you missed my point

Allow me to

Re-align

Weak men

Frightened men

Cowardly men

Are the ones who cannot

Find good women

We will not save our society

By beating the broken

I survived

This hell

This prison of the lost boys

And I implore you

Do not believe everything you hear or see

Think for yourselves

Step back

Disbelieve

Unbelieve

Rebelieve

Awaken

The couch holds my weight,

but poorly, sinking under the

excess drink between my bones.

My leg droops. Foot tapping

at the floor and the pinch of couch cushions

doesn't hold me up, anymore.

The cold bottle has grown warm in my fingers

but the ceiling doesn't change as long as I stare at it

and the crack stares back.

It's raining.

A rivulet of escaping water

hurries across my basement apartment floor.

Everything's escaping from me

these days. The case doesn't help.

The impossible case.

Not a single trace in a city where

everything is pencil, drawing lines.

I've gone back and back and back to the database

searching faces

reading pasts

(more than I needed to, getting lost in people's stolen stories)

(but I never look at my own file anymore)

and there's nothing.

Not a crumb of DNA or a single lingering

whiff of

who they might have been;

they've erased themself.

I chase a ghost and find myself

pretending I don't envy them.

Oh, to disappear.

To dust, to dust, we all die in the end

but I can never die when my

entire existence has been catalogued and chronicled.

They've created, with their surveillance,

a city of immortals.

I know I'm listed as depressed

and maybe that's why I've wrapped myself

in this impossible job, a last ditch

to fall into so I can pretend to die;

a shroud of empty searching,

except—

Something tickles at my mind

and I almost wonder if I'll run away.

The light flickers like a firefly, on and off,

and threatens an ending, but

I don't know if I can survive another

success

that doesn't,

in the end,

change

anything.

I'd rather be a moth in the darkness

than chase the moon and find an artificial light.

But the blinding bulb calls and

drink in hand

I keep fluttering flickering towards it.

But I'm good at my job.

Sometimes I pretend I didn't

wish I was a failure so I could

wallow in peace. But

I know I'm good at this.

Even in the impossible cases,

I smell something.

An elegant killer that leaves

a trace of perfume,

a footstep that never touches the ground and yet,

I can almost make out footprints in the air.

What's the easiest way to be invisible? I mutter

into my glass and the liquid answers,

don't exist at all.

They asked me to find the murderer.

An invisible, untouchable force that kills and leaves

nothing behind; a wound with no knife;

a scream cut off as body hits floor

with such impossible weight, because death

is heavier than a body.

And a mind, alive, is lightest of all;

so light it floats and drips away like rain

leaking across a basement floor.

To be seen keeps us sane but

to be watched

might kill us.

My body already so heavy on the couch.

When I close my eyes, that's all that changes.

I was dead already.