I held onto you the way a child holds onto their blanket.

I never questioned, never challenged, most certainly never doubted.

The older I got, however, the more I realized I was talking to myself

more than talking to someone else.

I realized I believe in people.

I believe in their cruelty, their kindness, their eagerness, their sadness;

I believe in their whims, their heartbreaks, their respect, their madness.

I believe in human nature, for everything it is, everything it is not,

and everything it wishes it could be.

There is pain. And bloodied rage. And anger.

And all you seem to have to say for yourself is silence.

We create what you take away.

We build what you tear apart.

We destroy ourselves without you taking so much as a second glance.

I see the lines on their faces. Wrinkles beneath their eyes.

They believe in you, but somehow, they are still thrown into the mud, as you destroy their castles in the sand.

They believe in you, and they are tired of the same old repeated dance;

The worn-out steps, the silent prayers, the false idols,

the constant thought that no matter what they do, they are all, ultimately,

sinners.

But what is a sin, if not our own guilt built for feeling what we feel,

for thinking what we think, of experiencing our thoughts and assuming somehow,

what we are has something to do with you,

when, in reality, it does not.

We shaped our own hearts.

We shaped our own soul.

We shaped our own sin.

We shaped our own salvation.

You never stopped nor created our suffering. We did.

So, if it has nothing to do with you,

and you truly have no power to dictate what is right or wrong,

We must accept you are not the only pillar for everything

that is supposed to be good,

Especially since you've become nothing more than a symbol

of all the pointless, dogmatic hatred

We ourselves have poured

Into this

world.

If I were to lose you, on the road to your mind,

this is what I'd remember best:

for one, your painstakingly hand-painted skeleton vest;

the deer skull antlers you wove out of thin metal rods, all set to rest

on the blue-tipped top of your hair and your head;

the way our kitchen smelled of rosemary and iced tea,

something always just about to burn, something concocted out of flour and butter,

sugar, spice, and everything quite-so-nice,

or the dried chives you'd sprinkle

on top of our meals before we climbed on the rooftop

at the start of the night

as you sang along to your favorite album, you know,

the one you'd play on repeat

non-stop,

caressing each song until it became part

of your teeth

and your throat.

I would remember the furrows between your eyebrows,

the constant warmth as you shifted in your sleep,

and the way you would always, somehow,

through shivering night terrors

or sweetest of dreams,

always, unknowingly, find your way

back to

me.

Their palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy, and I'm pretty sure quoting Eminem won't help them. They'll lift a trembling hand in front of their face watch it shake and spasm spasm spasm until they can't take the sight anymore, and they'll clench their fists, and they'll clench their fists, and they'll clench their fists, and then breathe out and unclench them. They'll lift a trembling hand in front of their face, watch it shake and spasm spasm spasm until they can't take the mindless repetition anymore. They'll clutch something to their chest, maybe a stuffed animal, maybe a pair of tap shoes, maybe a book, but never a person. Even though they're surrounded by people who claim to care, they would sit by themselves by their bag, and watch people have fun without them. I open my eyes and can't help but still feel everything I felt back then. Nobody would notice when I went missing for hours at a time, just that I was there when I was meant to be. While they were invited to dinner parties I was the inviter lest I be left out. And I might dye my hair, never leaving it my plain brown color, and I might lose the makeup because I always wore too much of it back then, but I still have the same face, same face, same face, same face, I still have the same face as the person who experienced everything I never deserved to. I still have the same face as the person who had to initiate if they wanted something done. I still have the same face of the person who used to ghost everyone to see if they would notice. And I- I still have the same face, I still see that same face, same face, same face oh God I have the same face same face I-

The clicking on my right. Long nails, dry skin. She always starts picking at her skin when she is on the phone.

Click. Click. Click.

Let's try this again. I press my fingers into the chords, pluck at the strings--

Click. Click. Click.

"What is the name of those actors in the..."

In the movie we saw two hours ago.

I stop altogether once again, "It was So and So."

"That's right, So and So were in the Movie we saw."

Trying again to pluck at the strings--

Click. Click. Click.

The cats scream at each other on top of the staircase.

Tummy recoils. Banging on the wall to scare them off because he hates the sound of the cats screaming, and I hate the sound of him barking at the cats to stop.

Click. Bang. Click.

He comes downstairs, stands in front of me, starts asking me to play So and So song.

I try to pluck at the strings, looking for the chords on my phone,

but he is asking for eye contact. He is still standing in front of me. Talking.

Telling me to sing. To play. But also to listen. To call on the cats. To play what he wants. To talk about rent. The incoming electricity bill. The war in Palestine.

But to--

Click. Click. Click.

The glass in the kitchen clangs against the counter, knives in my ears. The wind outside rattles the branches; an open oven that is much too hot.

Windows are still closed.

Click. Clang. Eye contact. "Go ahead and sing, it makes me happy when you play."

Click. Clang. The windows rattle from the heat.

Every time I inhale it feels like what comes in is chlorine. The air outside is the same as the air coming in. I can't tell anymore, am I--

Click. Clang. Windows rattle. Am I breathing? Click. Clang. Windows rattle.

Cats scream.

My phone screen lights up. Is he okay? Is something wrong? Why won't he talk to me like he did before--

Click. Clang. Windows. Cats. Phone. Guitar. She laughs much too loud, slaps her hand against her thigh, and he bears his teeth at her in irritation, claps his hands together and bangs the wall to scare the cats and I keep wondering what is my problem, what is going on, the rug is itchy and smells of mildew, my finger is bleeding, I want to throw up, I can't throw up, they will ask what is the matter with me and it will be worse, I can't throw up if I can't breathe, what if he dies and all he remembers is me being unkind, what if this is it, why is my mouth so dry, have I even changed when everything else has not, am I imagining that we are falling apart because--

stop talking, stop talking, stop talking,

I want to scream, my hands are numb.

I quietly finish the rest of my drink. Deep claustrophobic breath.

The shaking stops.

The world quiets down for

just a single moment,

and I do not know

how much longer

I can actually

go on.

If I could, I would tell you all the parts I remember about you;

how the smaller details helped shape exactly who you were,

and much more importantly,

who you almost could have been.

I would tell you how much I miss you each and every day.

It is a very empty feeling, the one I have without you.

Everything is...cold. Even more so than before.

It's not as if you brought much warmth right as you arrived.

Your blood had been drained, your organs disposed of as donations

or...well, sorry to say it, biohazardous waste.

You know, the usual morbid schematics and mechanics.

As usual, I saw people coming in and out--

prepping you, cleaning you,

whispering and...singing to you.

I'm used to the sponges and needles and eventual tears.

The singing was new.

They didn't mention much about you.

They didn't do much other than stroke your face and sing.

Each stroke highlighted something different

as I observed from all around in utmost curiosity.

Their finger gently traced the blonde tips of your eyelashes,

(your eyes were closed and I couldn't help but wonder...

just what color did they use to be?)

the half-smirk indents on the right side of your lips,

(you must've looked glorious when you smiled,

from what I could catch in the echoes of your grins)

your eyebrows from beginning to end,

(you must've furrowed them constantly,

perhaps when you talked about something you had read)

Were you a reader? Was your eyesight strained?

Is that why they traced your forehead, the lines connecting and

leading down to the tip of your nose?

How often were you kissed?

How often did you let them hold your hand?

How often did they pause to see you standing right in front of the sun,

their hearts almost stopping as you practically...glowed?

They may not have said it before.

They may not have had the courage.

But I hope you know, just as they felt, just as they were singing songs

while secretly thinking about your name,

that they loved you.

And I love you now and forever,

just the

same.

The cat had run away from the door leading to the basement. Her fur stank of fear.

I decided, with mistaken curiosity, to explore. I went one, two, thirteen steep steps down. Musty, powdery air. A single faded blue-white lightbulb flickering behind me. Shadows stretching all around. But that's all they were-- shadows. Of course.

I was surrounded by boxes of stored belongings. A broken porcelain doll. Unworn baby shoes. The lightbulb burst into a shower of sparks. A blink of complete darkness, until it wasn't. Until I saw her. Until I felt her shredded, pale arms around my neck.

"Care for this dance?"

Her laughter fills the air. The streetlights glow above us.

Orange. Yellow. White.

She smiles, and nods, gives a mocking curtsy while I give a half-bow.

I pass her the earbuds usually hanging freely from my phone.

I take one, she takes the other, safely placed now inside our ears.

The cable makes it difficult to do much more than sway,

but we make it work, and it's all we got,

so I go ahead and press play.

Bass drum, snare, the constant high-hat in the background,

definitely not a song that screams 'romance',

but we make it work, and it's all we got,

and it really is all we need.

I bite my lip and smile, guiding her through a fox-trot,

which is ridiculous since all I can really do is

a high-school level of waltz.

But she doesn't care, and she doesn't mind,

so we keep stepping

front then back, then side to side.

She removes the earbud to let me spin her,

then places it right in her ear once again.

The corners of her eyes crinkle,

and I can't tell if what I see is an added burn;

an added question I have no idea how to even phrase,

let alone guess how to answer the way I'm guessing that

she'd prefer to pretend we know how to fox-trot

instead of going for the worn-out steps of a waltz.

But we make it work, since it's all we got,

and I keep telling myself that as the song fades out,

because God knows I'm too much of an idiot

to have picked a song that simply goes on,

and on, and

on.