I’m at the end of every line

The bottom of elation

Divided by the hyphen sign

Point of interrogation

But, worse, my pain is doubled

When I see my own reflection

Named a waste receptacle

Of refuse from digestion

I often ask the age-old adage

What fuel’s my own existence?

I’m told that if it weren’t for me

We’d run on every sentence

an inexplainable grasp

takes it's hold

on my heart;

a hand,

holding what's left

of my sanity;

it squeezes

until

the last

little

bit

of love

is gone;

and all I am left with

is memories

of what you felt like.

......

My soul does not know loneliness; in solitary times, I dream. Since I was A young child, I’ve treasured hours unseen. Hidden beneath the shrubbery, I’d visualize junGles lush. Explorations led by me; my enemies I’d crush. Never wanted, never needed, never wished for more. PrEcious time for thoughts and me; imagiNings explored. Loving fanciful lonely times, always, Then and now. My color for strength and creativity? To wild mAgenta, I bow.

......

My soul is stained darkest navy blue

Tinges blue for that broken spirit hue

Blackish for helpless rage, a space so vast and hollow

A voice of failure echoes and compels me to wallow

I sink into a muddy funk, I build an illusory wall

And watch the world rush by as I meekly crawl

Yet freedom is but a muttered hello, some swallowed pride

An urge to reach out and try something new wide-eyed

“You don’t have to do that.”

He hesitated, hand mid-gesture. “What?”

“That.”

“But--”

“Mac, I love you. You don’t have to prove anything to me.” My hand reached for his. We pulled close together, away from the other couples on the platform.

“I want to.”

“You don’t--”

“I want to.”

I sighed. “Mac, really. It’s not forever.”

“But Kelly…” his voice trailed off. I noticed his hand lingering near his belt. Near the knife.

The train whistled in the distance. “Mac.” My eyes ran over those around us, none of them focusing on our conversation.

“What?”

“Please. Please.”

“If you do love me, you’ll let me show you.” His eyes grew wide. “You’ll let me show you the only way I know how.”

I released his hand. “Have it your way.”

Mac pulled out the glinting blade.

I stepped closer.

“Undo my buttons.”

I didn’t argue.

“From the first time--”

One button. A collarbone.

“--I ever saw you--”

One more button. The heave of a chest.

“--I knew--”

Muscles. Skin. Heat.

He raised the knife. “I wanted to give you the most precious thing in my life.”

I flinched when the knife plunged in. He didn’t. Not even sawing through bone. Not even when he exposed the most vital part of himself to me.

“Take my heart,” he gasped. “It’s all I have to give.”

I watched it, blurbing blood weakly. Mac sank to his knees. The train’s brakes squealed against the tracks.

“Mac--”

“Take it.” Now we attracted attention. Sad looks from some, sympathetic from others.

I reached into the warm wet space of his chest. My hand slid past a lung, grasping its prize.

“Mac, I love you.”

He didn’t hear me. He was gone. I took the heart anyway. Slippery and bloody in my hands. Still warm, the last warmth I felt from Mac. The damn fool.

The door of one car opened. A man in uniform stepped out, calling to those who remained, “All aboard!”

There’s the silent hum of the fan,

the tumble of the dryer

the quiet heat of humidity

pressing against the window pane.

The TV’s been off

for hours now

the tell-tale sound

of missing footsteps crowds the night

Books surround the room on shelves

millions of words swarming and unspoken

waiting for a chance

a breath

the opportunity to be cracked open

From this one stationary spot

the world revolves and pauses;

the world does not care.

The mundane moves on.

It’s the time when calves

venture further away from

their mommas and wonder

what the grass tastes like

on the other side of the barbs

And they wander through the

sun-soaked field as far

and as fast as they can.

It’s this same time that

fledglings jump

or are pushed

or fall

out of trees, the wind

whistling louder than their cries

The fledglings aren’t the

only ones to test wings

and the calves aren’t the only ones

to sample the new grass.

Everyone samples the

petrifying excitement

of loving the thing

you were meant to love

before you know you were

meant to love it.

The first of my loves tasted of cheap wine in a water bottle.

He snuck in windows my senior year.

I wanted him, but in the wrong ways,

And it hurt,

So this love accused me of lying, and he wasn’t wrong.

The next love smelled of menthols and tasted like cheap beer.

He was a Pabst Blue Ribbon

and me waiting for him outside of a concert

Because I got kicked out for sneaking a drink from him.

He did not come to wait with me.

He was followed not so long by and old and new love in the summer

Mixed with the smell of salt and the taste of expensive tequila,

All quick fun and rekindled crushes from high school days,

But ultimately a pair of Vans I’d outgrown.

And last was the love only felt, only said, only expressed

with a chaser of whiskey

Alone and naked,

Metaphorically and literally,

Oh but this one. This new love

This new love is a fresh drink of something

I have no memory of tasting,

And I wish for more of.

The river ripples and crests against the supports on the bridge. It’s the only thing holding me steady in this moment.

“I want…” I can’t finish the thought, either in my head or out loud. There’s no one here to listen.

The wind rushes through my hair and up my spine. A tornado blows through my thoughts. They mix, muddle, murk up. They layer one on top of the other. It’s suffocating.

My knuckles turn white as my grip tightens on the railing separating me from empty space and the muddy Mississippi. I’m thinking of your right now. I know they’ll wonder what went through my mind--all these moments locked together. Links in a chain.

“I want…”

I know what I want, but the words won’t come out.

I want to jump.

To fly.

I want to feel that rush. The one in the summer, when you and I ride in the car on our way to our favorite places. The one where the windows are down and we’re flying down the interstate. Where the wind rushes through your hair and drowns out my life. The rush of wind moving so fast that you can’t catch your breath.

When the adrenaline pulses and my arms shake from excitement--from fear--I consider letting go. This one final flight will make me a bird. The night is warm, but the finality of this last adventure makes my veins run with ice. I think of winter. I think of cardinals. How pretty they are in the snow.

But if I fly, if I let myself go, I’ll be the spring songbird trapped in the snow. Songbirds don’t survive the harsh winter.

I think of you, one more time. I know what I want.

I want to fly.

#flashfiction #shortfiction #writingchallenge

I shuffle

down forsaken road

of bruised loneliness

between screaming voices

in the distance.

Distress washes

naked skin

shadowy grey figures

hover

just out of reach

I yearn

for a tomorrow

of lifting clouds

searching

for a connection

but all

I stumble upon

are vapors

of imagination.

Nothing lingers

but aloneness.