they wanted to know what it was like to kill somebody-

to pierce a hole in the so-called soul that humanity has whispered about for eternity,

to watch the color fade from someone's flesh, to

watch a person change into a mere mass of atoms that would sink back into the earth. to stand

back, see the blood on your fingertips, and know what it feels like to take.

i did not expect the question, mostly because of the way they stared at me

over the bulletproof glass.

christmas lights reflect

an autumn brown, gone too soon

ceiling lights defect

on a winter afternoon

sheets of ice glazing

against the classroom windows

with small arms raising

paper snowflakes, on tiptoes:

childhood-snowstorm crescendoes

tell me where you always wish you were, on the

empty days when every hour feels the same,

the dreams that give your life color.

tell me what you see, what you think about

right before you fall asleep.

where do you go when you feel trapped?

show me late-night you, dancing in a messy kitchen

to your favorite 3 am song.

laugh til you hurt over your favorite memory,

the one that you forget sometimes, but never fails to make you smile.

show me which sounds and smells take you

back to when you were five years old.

let me sit on the edge of your bed while you show off

your softest pajama pants, the ones that don’t reach your ankles anymore.

read me your favorite book, tell me why it’s a piece of you,

make inside jokes with me about the part that made you laugh.

let me run my fingers around the edges of your face, and tell me

what you don’t like about yourself, what you would fix.

stuff a pillow under the door, turn up the music,

and sing loud til your voice cracks.

tell me all of your favorite things, they will be mine too.

show me what makes you cry, what do you do with your tears?

and anger. what do you do in those heated moments

with closed fists or deep breaths?

i want to know your weapon of choice, words

or merely cold silence?

and when the sun sets, i want to watch your eyes get tired,

fall asleep with your hand pressing against mine.

if you take me with you to your dreams,

what will we see?

show me your worst dance moves, your terrible accent,

that movie that reminds you of someone in a bitter way,

let me watch what you’re like when you first wake up,

what song you hum under your breath.

i want to know which words make you melt,

to know if you’re the kind of person that isn’t afraid of getting old.

take me with you to the store, while you have a handful of cash

and a basket full of this-and-that snacks.

i want to notice your breath catch at whatever it is you find most beautiful,

the sunrise or the sunset? the stars or the rain?

i want to memorize you, stay awake

to listen to your heart beat so soft.

to be the first person to see the entire universe that is

hidden deep in who you really are.

show me the things that make you lose words;

what you live for, what you’d die for.

all of the sudden, your favorite color will be mine.

your eyes- your voice- your smile, will be my memories.

peel away the ‘i’m good, how are you?’ and show me

what wars are being fought in your mind.

when people ask who i am, what we are, call me

your person.

build a home for me in your heart

that doesn’t get replaced.

i'll be here to know you

when no one else does,

and i'll love what i see

between the lines of good and bad.

i will take the pieces of your heart

that you give me and love them well.

tell me how far you've fallen

and watch-

this is how i

fall for you.

your postcards are a contradiction, a

confusion between love or like or in-between

when someone's fallen and mis-

interprets returned feelings

your postcards could say 'i love you, i

miss you, these are my hands writing

to you, touching you across this

distance, which is the only thing separating

me from you, we feel the same.'

but

your postcards only say 'i love you, just

not enough to be where you are. not

enough to be in your life, what i want

is far from you, far from your desires and

our feelings and hands do not meet,

so here is a postcard of polite i'm sorrys.'

you send a postcard and spend a moment

thinking of me like a duty to check off

and here i am holding the paper

reading to determine if it is an 'i love

you and' or an 'i love you but'.

when i already know your postcards

are made of paper, not the pulse your

hand pressed against it while writing, you

are not sending me your heart though i

do i would i will, the ink i imagine is your

voice in liquid, but if you wanted it that way

you would have called so i could feel you

breathe through the phone, feel alive when

you say hi and feel my stomach sink after

the phone clicks off. but here is a slice of

dead tree in my hands with your name signed

like a restaurant check, you are the type to

never leave tips

tip me off this then, when your body is

gone, where is your heart? with mine or

flying place to place? do you have one?

because a postcard says too many things to

interpret. there are always words in between

the ones people say. that is the difference between

hi, hey, hello. bye, later, goodbye.

what do you say when you send me a card

from the first door off the airplane, a card with

a picture of the places you see out your

hotel window? don't tell me 'i'm good, work is

good'. tell me what you feel when you're alone

with that pen and paper. does the hotel bed

feel like home. who do you imagine filling

the empty space?

if the only thing filling the empty space

between you and i is a postcard, send me

themed shot glasses too. and landmark

tshirts and plastic keychains and airplane peanuts.

will you waste your money in gift shops until you think

of me at all?

no let me show you what i mean.

bring me the shirt you slept in, the

coffee cup your mouth touched, the pillow your arms held

the phone on your cheek, the rain that ran through your hair

the light that falls on your face in the morning.

send those in the postcard

i want to ask them what it's like.

outside the grocery store at night, i'm pushing

an empty cart into its rack and it's raining out.

that little room inbetween the automatic sliding

doors- between outside and groceries- where the

wind blows strands of hair in my face, i think

of you. it's almost like we all pause in that little

room to collect ourselves, a gush of air sobers us

enough to push through the grocery aisles. i am

thinking of your hands pushing my tangled hair

back. i always wished it was windy just so that you

would do that. outside, the rain is leaving a reflection on

the asphalt, and this deep streetlight-gold color is

swimming there. the other grocery store people are

stepping in it, dipping little bits of gold on the

edges of their shoes, i watch it run off.

it turns orange and i am sinking. no not

orange, no. because orange is warm bread and

your poetry, forgiveness and the saxophone. it's the

sun bleeding against the horizon, your favorite

candle, and the shadowed folds between white sheets.

the colored squares of light from a stranger's kitchen

windows. it's fall leaves like a burning ember

whispering 'die with me', it's fridays and vhs tapes

with old videos of us dancing, it's the way your hand

felt on my back. it's orange and it's you, and suddenly

this ripping feeling in my chest. i'm rushing to my car,

because grocery stores on rainy nights are those little

empty human moments where we all feel a strange

yearning feeling. the empty pockets, like getting home

from a trip, standing up from a restaurant table, slamming

the car door, hanging up the phone, walking alone, and

that moment in the dark before sleeping. a vulnerable

aching feeling, like something is ending all too soon, all

too empty. i am leaving the grocery store with rain on my

windshield and food in a bag. my left signal is clicking loud in the

quiet, the street looks so lonely, my hair is in my face.

it's the little things inbetween distraction, where

we're alone with ourselves suddenly feeling very small.

before now, they were the biggest part of our life, you made

the little human things mean i love you. they are so so loud now, it is all

over now. max, i am driving home alone tonight,

and though it is the fourteenth time since you are gone,

it feels like the first

time i am driving home

without your hand pushing my hair back.

(edition: slightly odd things, I guess?) this is going to be a long one, buckle up.

-fortune cookies that can't apply to your life whatsoever

-photo bombs by strangers

-the way gas stations look at night, in contrast to how dark everything else is

-marbles with the little swirls in them

-being alone in an empty house

-tree roots that stick out of the ground

-overdecorated chaotic houses

-earbuds *with* the cords

-kids going school supply shopping for the first time

-subtitles

-dirt in the springtime, it smells amazing

-art done by people with no artistic ability

-dark circles under eyes

-midwesterners (or canadians) planning family parties (oh marge you forgot the tapioca!)

-the stained coffee-stirring spoon

-public transport

-gapped front teeth

-plants growing between concrete

-grain patterns on wood

-people that say embarrassing things out loud

-italian-american accents (ey baby, you want mutz on that deli sandwich?)

-the way pencil smudges so easily on paper

-yellow streetlights

-feeling sudden bursts of motivation at 3am

-stained glass at old, historical churches(have i done this one before? i just love glass)

-window-shopping instead of actual shopping

-laugh lines

-the inside of guitars

-art pieces that make absolutely no sense and somehow touch you

-messy handwriting

-headphones on playing loud music in the middle of the night

-really cringey jokes

-rock music that uses piano

-grocery stores (the veggies getting a shower??)

-muddy paw prints in the house

-the part in 90's r&b love songs where they pause to talk

-using inside jokes as a love language with old friends

-the orange light right before the sun goes down (and the way it looks on people's hair)

-those matching outfits for serious bowlers

-cobblestone

-realizing in the middle of washing dishes that it's actually not that bad

-buskers

-'frog and toad are friends' books

-acorns

-avatar the last airbender

-the mismatched cups in the family kitchen that are collectively known as the 'kid cups'

-people that intentionally let wildflowers grow in their yard

-the way indoor pools smell

-this is an iffy one: traffic. some people need the alone time.

-school science textbooks

-PEOPLEWATCHING.

-office supply stores

-music in languages i don't understand

-wikipedia bunny trails

-even numbers

-snow under a microscope

-pirates

-pre-raphaelite redhead paintings

-Wham!

-the Vogue cover from Feb 15th, 1935

-shiny tumbled rocks

-and if it wasn't obvious by now, lists.

Hey. I'm just curious how the Prose challenge system actually works. For anyone that has entered the Trident Media challenges, cash prize challenges, or any challenges that included something about 'hearing back' from Prose and publishers, what has your experience been? Has anyone on here heard back from/gotten feedback on the challenge where you send in a manuscript? How does it work? Do you actually hear back from a publishing partner or no? I'm confused, because the way Prose goes about handling it is a little impersonal. I'd love to enter some of the aforementioned challenges, but want to know if it's worth having high hopes. Also, with the new Prose website, is anyone having issues? On the old Prose, there were little settings like being able to use italics or bold, that I can't find anymore on the new site (which isn't a big deal). Other than that, I haven't had any issues, but am interested in everyone else's experiences. So please do share!