they buzz in my head

not voices per say

but theres definitely

something

or someone

and it just wont stop

not sounds but screams

undecipherable but painful

quiet but burning

not even noted as a scream, more like a non stop painful buzz

like a swarm of bees attacking again and again

it rattles around inside my skull

slamming itself into my temples

a million things make it impossible to focus

it cant slow down

that would be impossible

it jumps and runs but mostly it screams

not distinctly female or male

hell its not human

but it screams

sometimes I wonder

if my brain was carved with a cleaver

would it escape?

is my head a prison?

or a sanctuary?

does it scream in horror?

in mourning?

in shock?

is it just so broken

that screaming

is the only thing

it can remember how to do?

it yells louder

I hope it gets its closure

so I take some tylenol and pray for the best

My mama always told me when you finish a soda can

you pull off the tab

back and forth

does she love me

does she love me not

obviously you need a name and face in mind

and love is costly

so if she loves you

you have to shake the can until the tab comes out

theres got to be twenty girls ive tried it on

none of them loved me

it may sound stupid

but maybe it gives me hope

ive know that the can can lie

but it never has and never will

so maybe one day the soda tab will fall ever so perfectly into the can

but until then

I guess I just have to drink a lot of soda

celia is the girl who lives on the next block

celia is when your platform mary janes with the heart buckles clack so elegantly peeking out from under your jeans

celia is when your hot pink pencil is sharpened to perfection

celia is a single footprint in a trail of fresh snow

celia is a pinterest board full of interior design photos from the gilded age

celia is the taste of a matcha latte on a saturday morning

celia is going to bed at nine when you have an essay due the next morning because sleep is important

celia is when the clouds look like cowboy hats

celia is a delicious nap on a school bus

celia is when you take off a cute but increasingly itchy sweater

celia is animal printed miniskirts and white knitted leg warmers

celia is where you first saw a kite taken by the wind

celia is when you wear chunky headphones, blasting conan grey

celia is pages and pages of architectural blueprints

celia is coasters ringed with energy drinks

who are you?

I feel as though I am losing my mind

The people, the voices, they scream in my head

telling me to stop

telling me to continue

I guess it's hard to have a conscience

It will all be over in a second anyway

I thought it was gone

the pain

the anger

the guilt

the suffering

alone

so so alone

and in my time of need

i get some advice

walk down to the old river

look off the bridge

jump

or don't

the voices can't seem to decide

everyone tells me

Raymond, take your meds

but when I take them

the voices disappear

then who will guide me?

they just want me to fail

another sad sad man on the side of their happy ending

clapping and clapping as they reach their dreams

not a thought about his own ambitions

I'm sure the voices want whats best for me

after all they're tethered to me

without me what happens to them?

its not like they can escape

can they?

now all the voices unified give me one sound piece of advice

usually they all argue

so this must be a great piece of wisdom

sure to change my life

maybe I'll be happier

they've never let me down before

so I jump

There was once a boy. He was an orphan, living with his young sister in a cottage in the woods, nestled by trees. Honestly, it was more of a hut than a cottage, but he learned to appreciate what he had. When he was a child he had one goal: make something of himself. He would sometimes run to the edge of the woods. When he squinted and jumped, he could see a giant castle in the distance; sparkling and grander than he could even imagine. He used to think I'm going there one day. Once my sister is old enough to make the trip, the two of us will go, and make something of ourselves.

The days passed. The two siblings would make up stories of what would happen once their life began. He wanted to become a rich merchant or an inventor or at least be invited into the castle once. She was never really sure. Her dreams varied from baker to the queen herself. The only thing that stayed constant was that she always told him she would have a daughter. Emilia, she said. Emilia was a ridiculous name. Only two puny syllables! Six letters! And so despicably common! He indulged his sister's delusions but figured that when she did have a child she would at least pick a sensible name. He loved her so he kept his mouth shut. They agreed they would buy houses right next to each other right smack dab in the middle of town, bordering the palace.

Days turned into months and months turned into years. Finally, they packed their few belongings and said goodbye to the only home they'd ever known. They walked for weeks, hitching rides with whoever was willing to take them, housed in exchange for labor. Honestly, their journey could be a whole story of itself, but like life, this story marches on. The journey took a toll on both of their bodies, feet red like they'd danced by a fire. But they never wanted to stop, each footstep dragged forward by hopes, ambitions and dreams. They would make it though. He would never forget the look on his sister's face when they finally saw the palace. Sheer disbelief and awe, eyes shining. Was it all a dream? Marble and a thousand murals, guarded by a golden gate, ethereal. It inspired the two, determined to become great, worthy of a town with such a palace. Their heads filled with dreams of grandeur, they set out. He vowed that they would make something of themselves. No, not just something. Something extraordinary.

That was until his sister died. He barely even remembered it. Every thing seemed like a blur. When someone you loved dies, you want the whole world to stop. You want the skies to be grey. To mourn with you. But life goes on. There's a hole in your heart. It can never be filled, and as much as you try, it will always remain. You must accept it and allow it to be remembered yet not dictate your life. There's another option though. You let it fester. Spike your heart with despair. Become cold, twisted. Angry at the world. Lord why is the sky blue? when all he wanted was rain or thunder. The perfect little town. Full of opportunity. But it shouldn't be. Twin houses, just like they always dreamed, left vacant. And instead of the promising young man he was, as the years ticked by, he grew solem and bitter.

He stayed in town. Became a merchant. A jack of all trades, if you will. He had enough to buy both of those houses the two used to eye. But he never had the heart to do it without her. He liked traveling. It let him escape from the constant thoughts of his sister pounding through his head. But he could never forget. He picked up all kinds of impossible hobbies. Merchants were great teachers. He learned to make armour from fish scales, mirrors from pearls, gold from straws. He met all kinds of people. Mostly drunkards, but drunkards were good company. They would tell their stories, most of them of long voyages. They reminded him of himself. So young, so naive. But he smiled and wished them luck. That was until the miller walked in. The miller came in bragging.

"My daughter is so talented she can spin straw to gold. She can play the mandolin with her eyes closed. She can dance the merengue while juggling three chickens"

My daughter this, my daughter that. Perhaps she was somewhat talented, but her father gave an obscene amount of praise. Perhaps this was what parents were supposed to do. Regardless, he had met the daughter. She had two left feet and the fine motor skills of a goldfish. Annoying, but what was the harm in being proud?

Turns out there was a lot of harm. The miller came sobbing to him. His words were so hysterical they were barely comprehensible.

"Th-th-th-hey t-t-took my daughter. Said s-s-she had to m-m-make gold for th-them"

His daughter was taken by the king to spin straw to gold. She was locked in a tower, and if refused, was to be executed. Everyone knew she couldn't actually do it. Apon being begged for help, he was empathic. He agreed. In the dead of night, he scaled the golden gates. I always dreamed of being in the palace. How ironic. No invitation, but I guess fate works in mysterious ways. His joints squeaking and begging for relief, he lept into an open window filled with straw and a spinning wheel. The millers daughter sat inside, clearly distraught. Her green eyes were stained red, blonde hair laid limply at her shoulders, some of it clearly torn out. She recognized him. Kind of hard to miss. He was a strange little man at this point, grief weighing on his body, physically shrinking him. His red hair no longer seemed youthful, but rather a the curse of a mad man. She explained her predicament in tears.

"What is your name, child?" he asked, voice rusty from disuse

"Arabella"

His heart dropped in his chest. His sister's name. His poor Arabella-Wilhemina. Their parents loved long names. At least that's what he told himself. He hadn't even heard that name in thirty years.

Not even Ariana or Isabella. Arabella. As much as he hated fate for killing his sister, as much as she was the best, shiniest, kindest person he had ever known, he had to admit, this was a sign to help the girl. Perhaps it was a sign from his Arabella. And now that he was looking at her, the girl looked exactly how Arabella would have looked if she had made it to the ripe age of twenty-three.

Sensing an existential crisis afoot, the girl added "But you can call me Ari" Jesus, she was the one about to die, not him. If anyone had the right to break down it was her, not some random man in the tower.

Good. His sister was Arabella, or maybe even Belle, not Ari. Never Ari. However, he was not about to let her die. A glint of determination shone in his eye as he approached the wheel. He did the entire room in about two hours. The quickest he had ever spun gold. The girl, Ari, wept relief and joy. She insisted he take her bracelet as a token of appreciation. He didn't mind that one bit. He could sell it for a pretty penny or perhaps make a new mirror. As he carefully climbed back to the ground he studied the bracelet. Belle would have loved it. He decided to keep it, placing it in his pocket.

The next night he returned. How cruel was the king to force her to stay in this room? Ari told him the king decided it must be a fluke. This time the room was even fuller. He spun all of the straw while Ari told him about her life, her dreams her hopes. God she reminded him so much of Arabella. By the time he finished, he noticed a single tear rolling from his eye. He was sure Ari didn't notice. Ari lived with her single father after her mother's death. The miller was so proud of everything she did. Every piece of art she made was proudly hung on their walls, photos littered around the house. She had no idea what she wanted to do next. Probably marry some random man and wait for her life to begin.

When he finished, he jokingly asked "What are you going to give me this time?"

She replied by handing him her necklace. On the back, he read I will love you always - Mom

He tried refusing it. Clearly too much significance. If he had anything of Belle's he would hold onto it forever, protect it with his life

She insisted

"She's in a better place now, and I already know she loves me. It's too painful to hold onto anyway, and you could probably melt it down and sell it for a lot"

As he climbed down the walls, he knew he could never sell it. And yet again, he returned the next night. She was gushing

"The king is letting me out tomorrow!"

And the two were estatic. He spun in record time. They discussed their plans for the future.

When he left he asked her what she would give him

"I'm sorry. I don't have anymore more things to give you. What else do I have? My firstborn child or something?"

His voice softened

"You know, I think I'm ready to be a father anyway. One like yours. Celebrate a child. Brag about them to everyone who will listen"

"Make sure you don't go overboard. That's how I ended up in this mess" she laughed before becoming serious, "You've got yourself a deal. I would be honored. I've known you so long and I never even caught your name"

"Rumpelstiltskin. My name is Rumpelstiltskin"

She laughed and bid him farewell. She was finally released the next morning and returned to her father. The miller was so overjoyed he cried for a week straight.

He still went to see her even though she technically didn't need him anymore. On Wednesdays, they would meet up, have tea, and she would always leave him with some type of gift, whether it be bread, jewelry, or once a pile of straw.

About a year in, she exclaimed

"I'm getting married! To the prince!"

The wedding was beautiful. He had a front-row seat, cheering louder than anyone else. As much as he loved Ari he found himself thinking We did it, Belle. We're here. As much as he still thought of her every day, her remembered the good of her life, rather than resenting the world.

He still saw Ari every week. She looked to him for guidance, almost like an older brother. He heard of her woes as a princess; galas, embassies and most of all, her father-in-law. The king saw her as an insult, common blood, an ex-glorified-prisoner. The king essentially ran her life.

Especially once she got pregnant. Ari never wanted kids but the king insisted it was her duty to produce an heir. She decided that instead, it would not be her child in anything but blood. She would give the child up. She did not forget their deal. She asked him to become her child's father.

While insane and the king would definitely be royally pissed, his love for Ari and his own desire for a child persuaded him to agree.

Turns out the king was more than royally pissed. He threatened the life of everyone. Ari's husband, the prince stood up against his father. He created a contest. If Ari could guess the name of the man who would end up with her child, she would 'be able' to keep it. If she could not within a week, the child would be his. But Ari already knew his name. The king didn't have to know that though. He wrote his name to be sealed in an envelope as proof.

On the first day, she would have to read an list spanning miles full of common boys' names while he, the king and the prince all watched. Pshh. Like he could be a Braden or Jacob.

The next day, same thing with no results. Ari was elated.

"It's going to work! We did it!"

However, the third day, the list was longer than ever. She read and read names for hours. The king walked over to her and whispered something in his ear. Suddenly her face fell. He knew. The gig was up. He braced himself. Even unborn, he had grown to love his child. Ari couldn't even bring herself to say it.

A slash echoed through the palace. He realized that a dagger was pressed against Ari's back. Still, she remained silent.

"YOU IDIOT!" he screamed "JUST SAY IT"

She stayed silent. She was going to get herself killed. For him.

"Rumpelstiltskin! Please! Just say it! PLEASE!"

Still nothing. Suddenly, as quick as lightning, the king lunged, pressing the dagger against his jugular.

"please" he begged.

She murmured, now sobbing.

"Rumpelstiltskin"

The king smiled, pushing him to the floor. This was the lowest of the low. Which is worse, having nothing or having everything and watching it get ripped away? The king walked away, caressed Ari's face, taking the prince with him.

That's when he realized it. His leg was stuck in the floor. He pulled and pulled but he couldn't get it out. Maybe it was his will to live slipping away. Maybe it was the loss of his child- No, his daughter. He could feel it. It would be a girl. Ari got up, helping to pull out his leg. He felt himself ripping. Yes, leg from leg, but he felt his soul ripping from his body. It was time to go. Perhaps he had finally made something of himself.

Ari looked horrified but tried to soothe him, assure him it would all be okay, even though it most certainly would not. He looked up at her, knowing it would be his last few moments. He saw the sky, a gorgeous light blue. There wasn't nearly enough time to say what they wanted to.

"Promise me. Her name is Emilia. Emilia. Promise. Please."

Understanding what he meant immediately, she agreed

"Of course. I promise"

As they said their goodbyes, Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes.

"I'll see you again, Arabella"

And he grabbed his leg, ripping it clean off, killing himself in the process.

What if each time you spoke

you used up a little of your voice

and when you ran out

you'd never speak again?

Of course the rich have their ways around it. Probably ripping the voiceboxes out of the poor. Speaking more than a few words is reserved for them. Everyone else carries around little boards to write on or learn some form of sign language. The government protects us. Teaches us bits of hand sign here and there. Luckily we've evolved. Experts think we can say approximately 500 words in our lifetime. Urban rumors say that you could die without a voice. I'm not sure if that's metaphorical or not. Oh well. Not that I'll ever use any of them. Or anyone really. How much is a new voice worth? So limited. I've probably heard no more than 6 or 7 words in my entire life. And I'm considered lucky. Most are constricted to simply listening to audiotapes. But our ears have evolved so much that it's garbled. You can never exactly understand what they say, and who would waste their precious voice on recording new ones. I've been told voices are beautiful. Not any of those that I've ever heard. I work as a housekeeper for an ultra rich suburban family. I think they're some type of politicians. But as my mother always wrote, don't open your mouth, don't write questions, don't hear a gift horse neigh. Giant mansion, elevators just to get from the basement to the top floor. But I've been blessed. All the words I've heard had been quick impulsive orders between the family. I have had the mother, the one who signs my paychecks, say a whole real word to me. She called me a P-R-I-C-K. I wonder what that means. It sounds beautiful. Her voice rang out in my ears, to be played forever. To waste a whole word on me shows how highly valued I am. I haven't ever had anyone say anything directly to me.

The mother walks by. She claps, her way of getting my attention. She signs

you me follow here

At least I think. Sign language classes aren't that great and my limited education certainly doesn't help. I run after her. She rolls her eyes, clearly sensing my incompetence. She whips out a pristine ivory tablet. She writes in a quick clean swooping cursive that I am to accompany her to some kind of government service. I suppose the man who usually does this is out today.

I follow her through the mansion and into a white limousine. We remain quiet the entire brief ride. I step into the driver's seat. She points at each street and where to go. Finally, we arrive at a gloomy official building. I open her door. She gestures at me to follow. I assumed I would just be her driver but I suppose she needs hired help with something else. Perhaps polishing her shoes.

We walk in. It is a large room, seating maybe 600 people. In the centre is a dirt and sand area, with giant screens encasing us in the room. Perhaps my mother would have called it an arena. I walk the mother to her seat. She hands me her purse. Ah, I realize I am here to hold her stuff so she can focus. A man walks out. The screens announce him as a high ranking government official. They state he is punishing some type of "unnatural person".

A child walks out. Maybe she's in her early teens. She seems normal.

The screens shudder. They state she is blind.

Blindness is considered a sin. How else could anyone get around? How could you understand anyone? Good on them for taking her out of her misery. If anything maybe they should have done this sooner.

They allow her to choose the chair that will take her out forever. It will deliver soothing drugs into her system, causing a calm peaceful overdose.

Barely a teenager, she chooses a small sturdy comforting one. It's a wonder she knows which is which. She sits down for the last time.

The screens blink

You words any final?

Then they remember she cannot see. An official walks over and taps a pattern on the girl's hand. She seems to understand. Usually people refuse to ever use their words, even upon death. Strangely she nods. How immature. Perhaps she will cry out for her mother. They plunge the needle into her arm. This means she has roughly two minutes to say her words according to the screen. Plenty of time. She opens her mouth. Her words sound strange, melodic, almost in harmony, rhythmic.

"Singing" the mother mutters.

The girl continues. I don't know what it is supposed to sound like. It reminds me of the sound of the wind, the ocean, my childhood, life itself. Her voice, high and nervous, but accepting of her fate. She stretches each word so it might as well be eight. She makes eye contact with me, eyes glassy and blue, never faltering her song.

After a minute and a half the words die on her lips.

I've never been a writer. I was always the kid struggling for a C- in English classes. I just didn't get it. I had ideas. Great ideas, even. But I just couldn't think of how to execute. What dialogue to use, insightful comments on a piece of evidence. And as the resident smart kid, it was really fucking hard. Until high school. I realized poetry, character pieces were for me. Because who really cares about dialogue in emotion. I mastered my craft. However, I always needed a more dramatic ending. What's a better ending than a shock? Better yet. What's a better shock than killing off the main character? Naturally cynical, I lived for the drama, the type of ending line that makes you rethink a whole piece. I guess that leaked into my work, while reality blended with my stories. I think the ease in killing off a character made me value life a lot less. I started taking stupid risks. My father always told me that the way you talk and act influences your mental state. As my work got darker, so did my outlook. But I could never get anyone to read it. So horribly frustrating. I knew my shit was better than anything on the market. I guess that's how I ended up in this predicament. It was so easy. It made me want more every time I got away with it. And I would document every time I did it and somehow the books sold double. Apparently I was a crazy genius. No one had to know it was real. I could stop at a bookstore, see who was outselling me, and take care of it. Of them. It was just too easy. Honestly, I expected some resistance. Sneaking into someone's house in the dead of night, turning on their stove at first. Watching them die peacefully in their sleep. But I became an addict, much like my father. Unlike him, bloodshed was my alchohol. The chase became more fun, and exhilarating until I was forging suicide notes, whispering in their ears to drive them mad for years. I could turn any author from beloved to psycho in a matter of weeks. It was beautiful. Watching the life leave their eyes, last breaths leave their bodies. I guess it gave me control. And I guess I'm the last psycho author. The last ten years have been fun, but like my father learned, eventually all the alcohol in the world stop working. Didn't take much for him to see that bridge and drive straight off. I wonder what he would think of me now. His darling baby boy, a murderer. I know I'm not a good person. Everyone has their demons, and I lost the battle to mine. Just like my dear old dad, my brain cries for bloodshed. Now it's not for anyone else's. It's mine. So after a decade of forging suicide notes, its time to write my own. Ironic how life gets you. So dear reader, I hope you realize that I am not a genius, a mastermind. Just a really shitty writer, swept up in his craft. Goodbye forever.

I've never really liked someone

But he's different

I don't know why

He's cute i suppose

He acts like a big silly goof

like a golden retriever

He doesn't get all my jokes

but he tries

I wonder why

I hated him

I would pray he would quit our extracurricular activity

I had to see him

twice a week for two months

and lord i hated him

he just rubbed me the wrong way

and then i just

didn't

by then everything had calmed down

we went back to him going once a week: Monday

me going twice

different days though

and i was so relieved

until one day i took a monday

i dont know why

i probably just had to miss my day

but i didnt hate him anymore

his jokes didnt make me want to go deaf

his mockery turned funny

and then slowly i realized

i like this boy

I dont know when it clicked

maybe when he finally cut his hair

maybe when I sent him that first text

it was stupid and a chore to text

but slowly it became more natural

texting all day everyday

we had an event

he was the mascot

got heatstroke

cried that he wanted to leave

and when I went to check on him

it hit me

i didn't want him to leave

not just because i didn't want to wear the costume

and i couldnt piece together why

im realizing i like him and im

crush'd

i dont know what to do

i added mondays to see him more

reread our texts after he goes to sleep

he told me he would start taking tuesdays

my day

he said it was for the extra class

but he's had a full year

and's told me he hates that class

so why would he change

i screenshot our conversations to send to my friends

they dont know him

and id like to keep it that way

and everytime i go

i dont like him

my phone goes off

and my heart flutters

i dont know why

nothing could ever come of this

and im stuck

not subtle

but horribly stuck

he steals my slang

remembers more than i thought he would

stares then looks away real fast

tells me about his friends

brushes the surface of his life

i know he cant swallow pills

he knows i cant whistle

i dont think he likes me

its confusing

and i dont know if he treats me differently than anyone else

i guess he wont know until i get over this

ughhhh

liking people sucks

its supposed to be fun

youre excited

you text all your friends

you feel like your on cloud nine

or so I've been told

but this is just constant yoyo-ing

do i hate him

do i like him

because i think i do but its weird to say out loud

i feel like im supposed to be more nervous

but im not

i give up

i just count down the days until monday

They always leave

I start the same way every time

they become my new obsession

I tell them everything

It feels right

maybe they can stay this time

All of us, together, we spill everything

they become the people I can lean on

and for once I have people

they know

almost

everything

but no one can know everything about me

It depends on the group but as soon as I reveal too much about myself

They freak out

or we ‘grow apart’

Time after time

Constant, a vicious cycle

and at this point, so many failed

and I realize no one wants to know the real me

everytime the mask drops

so do they.

I don’t know if I want to try again

no, I dont know if I can try again

how much am I asked to go through

Afterall no mask can stay up forever

is it worth more to be accepted in a mask

and I dont mean any of that kindergarten bullshit

’no be yourself’

But what if myself isn’t good enough

I’ve learned too much I shouldnt

then I see them on the street

and we‘re strangers

thats what happens everytime

because i love having people

to talk to

to lean on

and.It’s so hard to be alone

but is it even worth it

can I try again

I need an answer

so many

and I have new people

but how long will it last

they do not worry, for they will never be ditched

In all the world there is not one person who would choose me first

ive accepted this but it hurts

What are my options

the mask is slipping

but i am becoming the mask

my face becomes more twisted, angry each time

but for now they can believe it

the ‘funny one’

I hate being the funny one

the funny one is always the worst one

the funny one is the ones whos eyes hold insecurity and imposter syndrome

the one who grew up to fast

I dont think I’m ready to try again