I would never have married you if I had known that you were a serial killer.

I began to notice little things that concerned me the first month we were married. You were narcissistic, always primping in the mirrors on the wall as you passed. I noticed that you never paid any attention to me because you could only focus on yourself.

I always wondered why you disappeared for periods of time just before the newspaper headlined new rape-murders. Your excuses were vague but you really didn’t care what I thought about your absences. I found explicit, sadistic porn magazines hidden in the garage but you said the previous house owner must have left them.

I hate to admit that I began to use your proclivities to my own advantage. If my boss lady made me stay late, all I had to do was mention it to you and her body would be found the next morning. If someone spread nasty gossip about me, you would take care of her. It’s not that this bothered you that much – it was just that it provided new targets for you. You always felt so powerful and strong when you accomplished a new murder. You never mentioned it, but I knew you were the killer.

I hate to admit it but I became enamored of your proficiency and decided to take a stab at it, if you get my drift! That night while you were sleeping, I plunged my favorite butcher knife into your devious heart. You can’t imagine how excited I became as I watched blood seep out of your body. After getting rid of your body, I decided to take over your job and I was very, very good at it! After all, I studied at the hands of a master!

22 in an hour, wanted to write something for the occasion, to try to make it an occasion at least. Something with meaning, something fulfilling, something to make the last year count for something. It’s late and I’m tired from the melatonin pills kicking in, only thing that helps me be a functioning individual, linking me to the tick of a clock. Can’t do sleepless nights anymore - birds chirping and there’s the cozy blue light squeezing through inbetween the curtains, flaring up the window dust, and I think “fuck it” and drag myself out to make some instant coffee and smoke a cigarette because I got my leg stuck in the quicksand of thinking it was cool and artsy to do both at the same time. Don’t smoke, it blows.

I got sick about a week ago and I didn’t smoke for three days. Tried it again after I got better and thought “Jesus, this tastes like shit” but I bought the pack already so my brain told me it’ll be the last last one. Then it said “let’s just chill out a bit, 4 or 5 a day” and I said yes and now it’s back to the old half a pack a day occupying this vanta-black hole in my budget that I don’t ever want to look at cause I know I won’t care at all. I don't even know why I picked it up again.

I haven’t had alcohol for the past two months at least. Maybe longer. I don't really remember. That's the weird, annoying thing I've noticed when you're trying to make a change. As long as you're not thinking you're changing you're set. Just don't think about it. I don't know why. Guessing it's cause your building it up in your head that it's this big huge mountain you have to hike and now there's a fat obelisk casting a shadow all over your brain wrinkles and you think "well I'll never see the light" when it's some dumb-ass mirage your brain made up because of endorphins and short-term gratification. I don't even know why I'm writing this anymore.

It's the melatonin.

When I was 7, my school hosted a poem-reciting competition in which a representative from each class would recite a poem in front of a lot of parents, the principal and vice-principal, and more. Being an introvert, I chose to keep quiet during the selection for the class representative even though I knew deep down that I could do well.

Unfortunately, all my classmates voted for a CERTAIN SOMEONE who was VERY RELUCTANT to participate.

That person was yours truly.

Initially, I rejected the offer because I knew I could not overcome my stage fright and shyness. However, upon seeing the hopeful faces my classmates and class teacher wore, I gave in and agreed.

Weeks flew by as my spare time was converted to choosing a poem, memorising it and learning simple actions to make it ‘more lively and entertaining ’ as my class teacher said. A costume was chosen, my parents were delighted and my elder brother pestered me when I was trying to memorise the poem.

All these chaotic preparations did not equip me with the right steps to take to overcome my fear of BEING STARED AT BY A BUNCH OF STRANGERS and sometimes I regretted accepting to take part in it. My nerves grew as my classmates swarmed me with questions. Questions, questions, questions. 

Before I knew it, the night before the competition had arrived.

I stared at the ceiling and cuddled my favourite soft toy, too nervous and scared to sleep. All my thoughts were about the competition.

About the people looking at me. Expecting an excellent performance.

About the microphone that I would hold. That would amplify every sound I made.

About EVERYTHING.

I felt shivers running up and down my spine. I could not think, could not breathe. Yet I didn’t want to tell anyone, fearing I would disappoint them. 

I stared at my soft toy, trying to make it speak and help me through those dark times.

Then I pictured my soft toy standing up in my mind and speaking to me.

“Come on, you can’t be scared of a bunch of people! Just imagine they’re all dabbing or doing something funny. That’ll look so hilarious! Remember, book characters always have it worse, so just go out there and get it over and done with. I’ll be waiting,” its imaginary voice squeaked.

I thought about those words for a minute. My seven-year-old self realised that my doll was right! I could just follow her advice and it would be awesome! I lulled myself to sleep comforted by those words.

The next day, there was a flurry of activities taking place. Last minute adjustments were made to my costume, my classmates were wishing me good luck and telling me they would cheer for me, my class teacher ran through the script and actions. My nerves had disappeared, however, for I was as cool as a cucumber. Up until the competition began and I was called to the stage.

Heaving a big big big big big breath, I strutted towards the microphone as confidently as I could but my heart thumped wildly. Blood pounded in my ears and I could hear my ragged breath. As I faced the large crowds packed into the hall, my fear grew. I cleared my mind and tried to focus on the first lines of the rhyme:

Little drops of water,

Little grains of sand,

Make the mighty ocean,

And the pleasant land.

No, no, you’re supposed to greet everyone and introduce yourself! I thought. 

I quickly greeted everyone in the hall and introduced myself.

“ Today, I will be reciting a poem entitled ‘Little things’ by Julia Fletcher Carney,” I continued.

Now, you do what I told you to do and recite the poem, Lily’s voice echoed in my head.

I imagined the crowd dabbing and a smile played across my lips.

Little drops of water

Little grains of sand,

Make the mighty ocean,

And the pleasant land.

So the little moments, 

Humble though they be,

Make the mighty ages

Of eternity.

So our little errors

Lead the soul away

From the path of virtue,

Far in sin to stray.

Little deeds of kindness,

Little words of love,

Make our earth happy,

Like the Heaven above.

I finished with a bow and a thank you. A thunderous applause shook the hall that drowned my last words. I smiled as I saw my classmates whooping and cheering and my mother proudly filming my every word. As I walked off the stage, I thanked my soft toy silently for those useful words of advice.

Ever since then, my confidence has grown and I have overcome my fear of stage fright.

Moral of the story? To be honest, I have no idea. Write in the comments what you think the moral was!

id been drowning

i felt myself pulling up but never floating

for a long time, night to light

then a few words from you

the pressure relased

and i could move

my lungs could breath

my heart could stop working so hard

and i could see

and now im alive again

to m

3:50 AM.

I should be asleep right now, but I fear that I’ll be awake to greet the sun once again.

We have a bittersweet relationship, the sun and I.

I’m not a fan of it at 5 AM, when the birds are chirping and my eyes are burning. The morning grass showers in dew that sparkles like glitter in the dancing rays.

But at 5 PM, that’s when my love starts to grow. As the sun sinks lower, kissing the mountain top, ever so tenderly, I admire it’s warmth. It’s glow illuminates a tiring world that seems to slow down ever so slightly.

I whisper a sweet goodbye to my friend, knowing I’ll be there to greet it the next morning.

3:53 AM.

I am running from the pain

the pain left from you

you with your sickining sweet smile

and gleaming uncooked eyes

eyes that always made me wonder if you were truly thinking about me

me with the auburn hair, scared to leave your side

me with the freackled nose, scared to see what I'm like without you

me who looks nothing like this, wondering if I would be loved by you if I did

She has those things

She has the aburn hair and the freakled nose

and I have the wonder and the scared

And what to do with that is truly a perdicament

because you have always been in the back of my mind

so what if i let you go?

If i let you go what happens to me?

will I truly thrive on my own?

If I let you go what happens to me?

The pain of the spot that you left, too big,

too strong

to much

you are to much

you were always to much

for me

a me who wanted joy

and got pain instead

Anger is the sudden shock of a fall through cracked ice into freezing water.

Ice chills my veins, burning slow and careful.

In the cold my thoughts become clear and sharp, beautiful as an icicle spear, just as deadly.

How they glitter so.

Beware the quiet anger.

Like snowflakes in a blizzard that never ends, behind it lies a storm's intent.