I have encountered a great many things.

I have encountered thieves and magicians, crooks and heroes, people rich and poor and wise and ignorant. I have encountered renowned scientists and scorned ones, and I have listened to them both. I have lived many lives, one for each person I have ever met.

It is a strange thing, to reach out for someone's hand. To watch them bare their soul to you, unknowingly. The moment of contact, my last sense of grounding before I am falling into them. It is a much more natural thing to brush against skin accidentally, grabbing an arm when I trip on the subway, sinking into memories.

I am a strange thing, but that has never bothered me.

Thousands of lives have been mine, but there is one that always eluded me. The Woman of the Sunset, she was called, in whispers from voices no one but me would believe. She was said to read a soul with the touch of a hand, to bring death with a breath and return it with the next, a goddess of change come to walk the earth. In short, she was the closest I had ever found to someone like me.

I did not have a name like hers. I had lived dozens of lives before I could force my infant mouth to speak; I knew the value of silence. No one had ever known my secret, and no one had asked. Disappearing is a simple act. I can talk to a shopkeeper about my daughter, to a friendly mom on the train about my grandfather, to a temporary coworker about my oldest sibling, and then I will return home to a house that will always be empty save for me. There is nothing to ask about, so no one asks.

We met.

Of course we did. I had been chasing the Woman of the Sunset for years and years, I knew every step she would take before she took it.

I followed her for over a week in Barcelona, a month across the Southern part of Africa, a fortnite in the suburbs surrounding Shanghai, but when we met, it was in Los Angeles.

The City of Angels welcomed us. She sat down for dinner, and I sat opposite her, and she did not say a word, but she did smile.

She was beautiful.

She was terrifying.

I was also both beautiful and terrifying, but beauty and fear are masks that will always be hard to see through. No amount of experience could allow us to see each other clearly from across a table. She did not offer me her hand, and I would not have taken it.

"Well met," she said over dessert, after a meal of silence. I left my spoon balanced on the side of the plate to look at her. She looked back. We both saw nothing.

"To you as well," I said.

"You have questions."

"You will answer them."

"Dependent on content."

"No," I said. "You will answer them."

She tilted her head, as if she would see me clearer from an angle.

"How long has it been since anyone asked something about you?" I pressed.

"Ah."

A long silence.

"You're right," she said. "I will answer."

There was no world beside us. The table was inconsequential, the dinner just a game, the whole conversation just foreplay for the most important night we would ever have. Two souls stared at each other to see whose would blink first.

"Are you Death?" I asked.

She looked surprised. She looked confused. And then she laughed, and it all crashed back, the half-eaten plate of chocolate cake in front of me, the bowl of sorbet in front of her, the noise and the light and the humanity.

"The question, dear stranger," she said, after wiping her eyes on her napkin. "Is this: are you?"

She held out her hand, and I took it. We exhaled, and nothing happened. She was unreadable. I was a mystery.

We went our separate ways.

In the news the next day, I saw her picture along with an obituary. Ava Carden. Just a person, like anyone else, but now dead. Like anyone else. Like the doctor who had first held me, the one facing an abusive husband she could not escape forever. Like my parents, doomed to a car crash days after they first held me. Like my childhood neighbors, victims to disease and disaster just as I knew enough of their secrets to become attatched.

For the first time in thousands of lives, I wondered that I never met the same person twice.

I've been staring at walls, I've been praying to the ceiling fan

That moves the air in the room in a way that no human can

I've been ignoring my calls

And I've been hoping for another man to sweep her off her feet

So she's happy without my hands

'Cause I'm so ready to be loved

But I can only pour out once I'm full

I'm ready to turn back to dust

But I cannot ignore the fact that I always play the fool

I'm sure I'm fine, I just don't wanna check or let this set

A while longer feels stronger than forget

That my silence is as deep as my lack of sleep

My sense of peace and my lasting defeat

Darling, I know this hurts

But promise me someday you'll be happy

So this pain means something

The day before our first interaction was an embrace

Of exploration of nothing or everything

Depending on how you choose to perceive dreaming

I spent an eternity in four seconds focusing on the thought

That maybe love was just hormones, chemical abnormalities

Or social cravings

But then I met myself for the first time

When I made a lifelong promise that I knew I could keep

Because prior to my suicide

I thought lifelong promises were always selfish

Or at least seeded in some sort of embellished lie

We choose to believe

But I've been told enough times that I'm going insane

Just still want to breathe

Hotel books-

i feel a sadness dance into my soul

when i’m least expecting it.

it’s not when i’m lonely in my room at 2 am,

as the TV shows portray.

no, it’s when i’m with my family

or talking with my friends.

simply having fun.

the aching and pain and loneliness

tell me how pathetic i am

any chance they get.

but really,

the aching and pain and loneliness

are just words to describe an ugly pain that is truly

indescribable.

it is just felt with every nerve,

and then packaged into the nearest fitting word.

“depression”

“anxiety”

“anorexia”

“schizophrenia”

all fail to explain the feeling,

the one that differs from person to person,

so much so

that no one can understand your pain

except yourself.

I stole that ring.

I wrote my name under that desk.

I peed myself. In front of everyone.

I looked up the answers for Kumon. I lied about it. I hid that booklet.

I masturbated. I used that brush.

I looked up that porn. Well, not that porn. But porn.

I broke it. His show-and-tell project. But I hit my head because of him. But I blamed myself for him leaving school.

I almost ran away, but I hid instead.

I hyperventilated for show.

I sprained my ankle and hid it from you, but I didn’t tell you it still hurt.

I thought beheading that littlest pet shop toy was fun.

You’ll find toothpicks in the stuffed giraffe.

I never wanted to be a veterinarian for those reasons.

I saw him. Watching the porn. On mute. In the living room. Knowing I was in the next room.

I can’t get it out of my mind when I talk to him now.

I saw that glimpse of your happy tree friends episode. Where he stabs his own feet and skis down that hill.

I threw away the condom in the trash can. I put it in the empty ice cream pint.

I was scared in that bathroom. Couldn’t get out. Wouldn’t lock the door for years.

I remember the pills you put up my ass, and how I didn’t like it.

I stole those plastic vegetables.

I didn’t steal from target. But I checked my pockets when you weren’t looking.

I couldn’t watch commercials for anti-depressants for years. They gave me PTSD. I was twelve.

You’ll find strap-ons in my storage boxes.

I left him. I went back to my seat at the theater. I felt bad.

I never did study AP Chemistry that day. At least I never gave him a blowjob in the bathroom. I should’ve.

I lied. About the sex. But why would I tell? You’ll never know those things about me.

I tied him up. It felt good. No hickeys you said. Too rough. He tied me up.

He was right. The little piggies didn’t build houses out of stone.

I lied to you, but I loved you. I did it because I loved you.

You called me thirty times, but I hid.

I always hide! You know I always hide.

But so much! There’s so much you don’t know!

So much I wish you didn’t.

Forgive me! Forgive me, I didn’t tell you.

Forgive me, I never could.

Forgive me, I never can.

#secrets #thoughts #fiction #poetry

I always wanted to be a mannequin.

Years in and out of hospitals and clinics for anorexia and bulimia had me aware that I always wanted to be perfect, in someway.

After loss, pain, heartbreak, unbearable clinical depression, suicidal ideations, and irreparable damage I have found that it is true that I always wanted to be a mannequin but not for my body—I wanted to have absolutely nothing inside, have no ability to feel inside and out, I wanted to be a mannequin for the sake of my soul.

The story is simple

The art is absurd

the subject is something

I’ve never have heard

I would never think

to eat lunch in a box

and there’s no way I’m sharing

my lunch with a fox

It doesn’t make sense

To eat lunch in the rain

Although I’d be cool

to eat lunch on a train

And why would a train track

just suddenly stop

with everyone hitting

the sea with a plop

The boat is now sinking

but nobody cares

because of the question

that hangs in the air

DO YOU LIKE GREEN EGGS AND HAM?

if not then you’ll be pestered

by that Sam-I-Am

I was nine when death cast its cold, dark shadow over my people and stole the lives of my parents. We were sitting across from one another, my family, joining hands to say grace so we could eat the dinner my father had so enthusiastically prepared for us that evening, whatever it may have been. He loved to cook. My mother had only just gotten home from work. She was tired but still smiled and hugged us all when we ran to meet her at the door. Including myself there were four children—my twin, Jasper, and I were the oldest, with seven-year-old Elise, and five-year-old Adrien behind us. Father always used to say that together, the five of us resembled a living fire; Adrien, who inherited our father’s almost golden hair, made the image of a flame more real.

Together, the four of us took our mother’s things and walked with her to the kitchen, where Dad was setting the table. They embraced, as they always did, and Dad led her to her seat at the table, her plate already in its proper place. Jasper and I helped Elise and Adrien, and soon the six of use were seated and ready to eat.

We were happy then.

But then it happened. Some call it the Curse, others the New Plague. Others still, who wanted to stop the spread of rumors of the divine and mysticism in its tracks, claimed it was an attack on our great nation, but by who they could not say. Not that its name matters. No matter what we choose to call it; no matter if we choose to believe it was of God or Hell or man, I still watched as my parents died in front of me and my siblings. No matter what it was, on that day, before the sun set, every active and retired member of the military died, struck down by some invisible hand of death.

I was holding my father’s hand when it happened. It was large and warm, soothing to my cold skin. Until it wasn’t. In an instant the smile that typically adorned my father’s face was replaced by an expression of pure agony, and all the warmth I took comfort suddenly froze over. He was dead. Across the table, I saw my mother fall to the same fate.

My siblings and I scrambled over our parents. We begged and pleaded for them to wake up, not understanding what had just occurred before our eyes. When our mother wouldn’t wake, Adrien began to cry, and Elise quickly followed suit. Not knowing what else to do, Jasper and I gather our younger siblings and ran to our neighbor’s home. Dogged from our shock and faces wet from tears, we tried to explain what had happened.

For what it took, the curse also gave. In the days following the deaths, people of all ages across the nation began exhibiting abilities. There was no pattern to who obtained abilities, or what they could do, at least across different families. Within families, similarities were easily spotted. Jasper, Elise, and I quickly realized we had gained power over fire. produce and manipulate it at will. Adrien, on the other hand, could manipulate the air and weather around him.

The years went by, and the pain and hatred that our parents’ deaths sowed in us only continued to grow, and when no cause for the curse revealed itself, our hatred was turned toward the monarchy that did nothing as our people fell apart and crumbled into chaos. Criminals became empowered by the monarchy’s inability to enforce the law, instilling fear in anyone without the power to protect themselves. Eventually families banded together to ensure their survival, forming communities in which those gifted with abilities learned side by side, in hopes of growing strong enough to defend against any who would threaten their homes.

Our flames consumed any who threatened our home—we would never lose anyone we loved ever again. When we were old enough and had mastered all that our flames and wind could achieve, we consumed the crown.

It was beautiful, the fire that sprang from our fingertips, and the lightning called forth from the heavens. I remember how my flames licked my skin, tingling as they traveled from my hands to the streets of the capital, blazing a road of fire to the castle. I remember how the nobility cowered before us, incapable of extinguishing our flames or calming the storm we brought with us. I remember the sound of their extinction—their screams for mercy and forgiveness, and the cries of victory from those who fought alongside us.

I remember it all.

I remember it all as I wait next to my brothers and sister, our knees resting on the cold, stone floor of a reconstructed castle, while our crowns are placed upon our heads—crowns blackened by the ashes from which we rose.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has this to say on the planet Muic.

Avoid.

Even though it's beauty is renowned throughout the galaxy, the price you pay is, in this editor's opinion, far too great, for the composition of its atmosphere is unique.

There's no sound. None. What many consider to be air, though breathable, is absolutely resistant to any form of vibration, the upshot of which is, every living thing on the planet has evolved without a mechanism to process such information.

The people, though friendly, suffer this inconvenience in silence, as everything is silent, but for a visitor, the experience can be harrowing. The mutagenic field that envelopes the planet has the unforunate effect of causing any visitors to adapt to this peculiarity and many have reported that awaking one morning to find your eats have droppped off is not something to be repeated.

The planet Muic is the only advanced civilisation in the universe not to have suffered the apocalypse that is a Disaster Area rock concert.

I never thought it possible; that I would see you again. Your beautiful black silken hair, your eyes a mahogany brown like the desk I used to write on. You know, the desk where I would write story after story for you in an endless effort to express my love. I'm glad that you've come back to me, to show me that you cared.

Do you remember our little house on the end of the block? Such memories we had there, both for better and for worse, yet nonetheless memories that are engrained in my soul. All the times we hurt each other, all the times we laughed together, all the times we made sweet love, these times live on forever in my mind and are a part of the that house. I sold that house, not because I didn't love you, but because the love I still have for you. The memories in that house gave it a soul, and that soul is tearing my own apart. I could not bear being in that house one more second without you, it felt backwards, wrong.

I know you came to me last night in my dreams. I saw your heavenly face, one even an angel would envy. You looked so calm and serene, and I knew exactly what you meant when I saw your face; I just knew. You love me, you've always loved me. You want me to be happy and not to worry about a house, although we had so many precious memories there, because in the end it was just a house. We were the home inside of that house, and one day our home will be there once again in the world between worlds. Until we meet again my love.

Have you ever heard of a sky prison. I don't know if thats the name of it or if it's even real but I saw it on tv once and it bothered me. The man was in a cell, high up in a tower, and one wall was missing. He was so scared, he would back up against the furthest corner and stare out into the hole. When I lay in bed I pile my blankets like a fortress around me. I create the space around me, limiting what I can see. A pannel of a wall or square of hard wood floor in the singular light beside my bed haunts me. The emptiness of the space is a disease that spreads like cancer. If the man in the sky had just turned his back to the hole instead then the prison would no longer be so scary. Space, empty space, is dangerous.