I discovered myself at 6. Like an object I tripped over, I wasn't expecting it. I thought i already knew myself: Girl, Brown, Last born of three, My name and age and school, the colors I liked, the games I played...etc.

Despite that, I met myself at 6. On a swing. In a desolated playground as I waited on someone to come pick me up from school. I had watched my friends disappear in pairs and one by one as their parents came to fetch them. So here i swung on the swing after school, by myself, in the silence that took me by surprise. I was alone, yet I was not scared. There was no one and nothing to distract me from my soul, and I could hear it.

With this unknown but freeing feeling in me, I swung as I looked up at the pale grey sky, I found it beautiful. I sang a song that i made, with lyrics I wished I remembered and I was me; no age, no label.

My mother picked me up shortly, I put my hand into hers while in a trans. The following days I realized with so much vividity the colors I liked, the songs I enjoyed, the food that made my tummy hum :). I saw flashes of a dreamed and awaiting future (as i do now). I saw the ants no longer squashing them, I watched the butterflies without trying to trap them. I had realized in that moment that every single thing on earth had a purpose that only it could fulfill. Including me.

I learnt that I was unique, thus irreplaceable, thus important. And so was everyone and everything else.

Reality strays far from our fictitious fantasies.

Clearcut happy endings are just true travesties.

Life simply doesn't pan out like some extravagant fable

and this realization often makes us unstable.

The dreams we held as children and grew up with

are left alone as our foolish wishes.

The man meant to be the great hero

lives with a monotonous office job: a total zero.

The damsel in distress waiting for her prince

lays with hopes forgotten long since.

The underdogs that aim to make change

becomes the newest additions to the firing range.

We live in a world where villainy is the norm.

Life is a never ending thunderstorm.

We get lost in the stories we hold dear

while we find ourselves riddled with fear.

Quickly, quicker we run from reality

and turn to escapism, you see?

Not that its wrong to try and achieve

or that you should not believe

just know that real life is not some tall tale

or else you will ultimately fail.

Know that this cruel and gritty world is our life

and it is full of an abundance of strife.

Real life is hard.

We often find ourselves left scarred.

This is not some magical fairy tale where everything falls into place.

We have to fight hard and not lose face.

We must keep these separate

and be dead set

on overcoming what life has beset.

With this, our own lives can surpass those of the grandest stories.

It was his accent, I suppose, that made the whole thing bearable. That smooth British accent - born in Wimbledon, he had said - was so smooth, so proper it took the edge off everything he told me. The local radio station should hire him, I thought, to read out weather warnings and school closures; the mere sound of his voice would calm people, let them know there was nothing to worry about, this was all normal.

We sat at the marble counter, drinking ginger ale. He had been sober thirteen years, he'd said. I needed a drink, but stayed myself. The television was on in the living room, the sound low; I had been watching when he'd come to the door. Between us was a manila folder, closed. I'd seen what was inside, what he'd come here to show me: photographs. His wife. My husband. I was not, perhaps, as surprised as he was, but matters of degree are irrelevant in these matters.

"We married in Wales," he was saying, his words rich and tonal, like having the BBC on in the background. "We took the boat to Ireland for our honeymoon." I said nothing. I didn't want to elaborate to this man the history of my marriage. I nodded, the ice in my glass clinked.

No children, he said. Catherine - his wife - had had three miscarriages and so they had stopped trying. Involuntarily, my eyes went to picture on the fridge: me, James, our son Matthew at the Wisconsin Dells two summers ago. Hearing him say the word "miscarriage", again I had the auditory fantasy of waking up and turning on the radio to hear his voice, this Robert Huntington, telling me of some awful terrorist attack somewhere, some disaster striking on the other side of the world.

"What happens now?" I finally asked.

"Now?"

"Yes. Are you going to divorce?"

He hung his head and stared into the mica flecks of the counter top. Should I have not said the d-word? Was it too soon?

"How long have you known?" I asked.

He looked up and past me. "The private investigator gave me the photographs this afternoon. I decided I should come and speak with you."

"But you must have suspected?"

"Did you?"

Did I? He'd shown up on my doorstep an hour ago, at seven-thirty on a Friday evening, in a charcoal suit and burgundy tie, a Burberry scarf and a manila folder in his hands. I thought he was running for town council.

"James worked a lot," I answered. "He was always travelling, or late at the office."

He glanced up, smiled, and downed the last of his ginger ale.

Catherine and Robert Huntington. On the doorstep, he'd said we had met, at a holiday party. I didn't remember him, but Catherine's name rang a bell. I let out a long sigh and flipped open the folder. The black and white photographs were lying face down; I turned one over.

James and Catherine, embracing, kissing, in a parking lot.

"This is like something from a movie," I near-laughed. Robert nodded into his glass.

I got up and refilled our glasses.

"What are we going to do now?" he asked as I set his before him. A calm, soft yet strong voice. Tell me about the earthquake in Peru, I wanted to say, about the bombing in Cairo.

For the briefest second, I thought of kissing Robert Huntington, of how it would feel, how it would make him feel.

"Do you still love her?"

"Very much."

"Are you angry with her?"

He looked up at me now, his eyes red-rimmed and watery. He opened his mouth to answer and then shut it again. I stood and went to him, embraced him as he sobbed against me.

Over his shoulder, on the television, I saw footage of a plane crash. I wanted him to turn around, to watch with me, to narrate what we were seeing. To walk me through this unfolding nightmare. 

I woke up to the smell of coffee, and I knew there was someone else in the house. The pillow beside me was crushed and matted with use, the sheets tangled. Oh shit, I thought. I sat up in bed; there was a pile of clothes on the floor either side - mine, on my side, and a stranger's, a female stranger's, on the other. I clamped my eyes shut and dug the heels of my palms into them. What the fuck. Again?

I swung my legs out of bed and opened the drawer of my bedside table. There was still an unopened box of condoms in it. Unopened. Shit, again. I stood and groaned; my head throbbed, my mouth tasted like a garbage dump had puked diarrhea into it. The smell of coffee coming from the kitchen was making my stomach roll over.

Stepping into a pair of sweats, I went into the bathroom and surveyed myself. No black eyes, no split lips. Just an all-American fuck machine. Shit, again. Who was that making coffee? Who's clothes were those? I left the bathroom after a thorough tooth-brushing and bent over the pile of women's clothes. 

The panties were pink, the bra was pink, the jeans were dark blue, the top was peach. There as no purse; she probably took it with her into the kitchen. No overprotective mother had stitched this girl's name into her panties. I had nothing. No recollection of this person. Face the music, I told myself.

Opening the bedroom door, I went down the hall to the kitchen. She stood with her back to me, wearing only an old pair of my boxers she must have found in a drawer. Sure enough, her purse was on the counter; next to it was her phone. She didn't hear me come in, so I stood watching her. She was drinking from a mug, she was tall and slim, nice legs. Olive skinned. Black hair. Who the fuck was this girl?

I cleared my throat and stepped forward; she turned, smiling. "Good morning," she said, chipper as a flight attendant. Drawing a blank. She was pretty, green eyes, small lips, small tits. "Morning," I managed. Her teeth were very straight, very white. She might be my dental hygienist, I thought.

"How you feeling this morning?" she asked.

"Bit of a headache," I answered. She laughed. 

"I'm not surprised. You really put it away last night," she patted my arm. "Not that it affected your performance any. Wow, is all I can say. That's what I texted my friend when I got up, is that tacky or what?"

I granted it was, but didn't elaborate much. I accepted a cup of coffee from her, her fingers sliding along mine as she passed the mug. She glanced up at microwave clock.

"Shit," she barked. "I've got to get going. I'm showing a house this morning."

"You're a real estate agent?" I ventured. She looked at me puzzled and laughed. 

"You really did get shitfaced, didn't you? We talked about real estate for an hour last night."

This was news to me, as I know nothing about real estate, but I am a good faker, especially if there is some ass to be had out of it. But really, I had no memory of this woman, or last night. The idea that I bullshitted about real estate with her, while drunk, for an hour, was utterly bizarre.

She downed her mug, raced back to the bedroom - with her purse and phone - and I heard water running. She emerged ten minutes later in the clothes that had been piled on the floor. 

"That was an amazing night. Just what I needed," she cooed, coming close for a kiss. I gave her one; no memories jogged.

"We should do it again then," I ventured. She was hot, certainly, and I had apparently made a good impression.

She lit up like an all-night pharmacy sign. "Yes! I was hoping you'd say that!" She pulled her phone from her back pocket. 

"What's your number?" I told her.

Then she smiled like she'd just farted in church and gave me a little nervous giggle. 

"Um. What was your name again?" she asked.

It’s strange that nobody tells you about dreams.

Everyone knows the good bits: the longing, the waiting, the fancies and the euphoria. I remember it well. Sometimes I look back on those days and wonder if the current has carried off the last of my treasures: the remaining bits and pieces of my carefully curated life. It’s hard to imagine the grotto now, knowing no one cares for it, and that I’ll never be able to return.

I longed for land and love. But nobody told me about the fish. They bolt at my approach, terrified by the sound of my legs. Did you know they eat them here? Hundreds of them: little lives served up on silver platters. I used to cry about it but now there’s only numbness. About everything. Senseless, everlasting numbness.

The few fish who trusted me have passed.

I wish fish lived longer lives.

I wish humans didn’t live so long.

Nobody told me fire hurts. Or that walking on sidewalks leaves blisters on your feet. Mine are covered in painful sores. Shoes are horrible things.

Eric doesn’t understand. I am a doll to him. I am the princess from the sea and nothing more. The diplomats from other countries look at me with sorrow, or pity, or shame.

Nobody believes it. Not a word. They think I’ve lost my wits. I am the insane princess from the unnamed realm that Eric married out of pity. I couldn’t see that at sixteen.

My father stopped visiting years ago. I suspect he’s gone and nobody bothered to tell me.

I don’t sing anymore.

But I’ve learned things. Pain has an end, and so does sorrow.

I know the difference between a dinglehopper and a knife.

And I know before the end of the night, my throat will be as red as my hair.

Once upon a time in a faraway kingdom lived a princess, alone in a tower. And she was totally fine with that. I mean, who wants to share coffee in the morning with someone else anyway? She had a great job, a couple of guys she dated casually, and a yoga routine.

The End.

Once upon a time in a faraway kingdom under the sea, lived a princess mermaid who was really sick of being a fish. Plus, her dad was so overbearing. So she got some legs from Amazon, worked hard in school, and landed a scholarship to Harvard Law, where she graduated the head of her class.

The End.

Once upon a time in a faraway kingdom lived a princess with skin as white as snow. The queen hated her for being so pretty, so she left. She is now a Victoria’s Secret model and exclusively dates short men.

The End.

Once upon a time in a faraway kingdom lived a princess who had a curse put on her by a moody and evil witch. Instead of keeping in on the down low, her parents told her to steer clear of any and all spinning wheels. Informed, she avoided the curse and no one died.

The End.

Once upon a time in a faraway kingdom lived a girl with a step-mother who was a nightmare. Along with her two daughters, she treated our hero like a slave. So she filed for emancipation, won, and started her own house cleaning business. She fell in love with the lawyer who handled her case, who used to be a mermaid. They are getting married this summer.

The End.

I stand at the ready

A burst of warmth flashes on my cheeks

The breath is sucked from my lungs

The air around me is at once thick and thin

I can't breath, yet my chest heaves

The room spins, yet my feet are stuck to the floor

I have no words on my lips, yet my mind reels

Terrified to be noticed

Terrified to be ignored

Intention and agenda slip away

I do almost nothing

I say very little

Yet I feel every shift in the air

We are linked by an invisible string

I feel it slack as we get closer

It tugs as we move apart

But I dare not interfere

It is up to you

One day we might stand face to face

Our string in a pile at our feet

A reminder of years wasted by foolishness

One day we may slip too far apart

And the string with snap

But now it is unclear

Our string pulls and loosens

It insists and it resigns

Until the day you decide

I will stand at the ready

    They sat there silently for a few moments. He stared at the space between them. She was only inches away but he knew that he couldn’t reach her. He wanted to say something, needed to say something, but he didn’t know what to say. Anything he said would be too little, too late. The space between them felt infinite. Suddenly she grabbed his hand in her smaller one and laid them in the center of the stone bench, a bridge connecting the two. He quickly looked first at their entwined hands, and then up into her face. She had once been beautiful. Golden brown eyes and skin, dark, untamed hair, and a lively expression that left an impression that was not quickly forgotten. She was a shadow of that woman. He could not bring himself to look at her, her skin now pale and sickly, her hair matted, her eyes full of pain. “I want you,” she said in a soft, hushed voice. His eyes widened in shock, but he still couldn’t look into hers. He was afraid of what he would see there. Or maybe of what she would find in his. “I want you to be the reason I wake up in the morning, because tomorrow isn’t enough anymore.” And this, more than anything else she’d said, terrified him. He knew that when she had talked about it before she wouldn’t actually go through with it. She was too ambitious, had too many dreams. She was living in the hope that a brighter tomorrow was around the corner. And now that too was gone. He looked up. She was staring at him as though he was her anchor to this world. Her eyes met his and he saw an all-consuming sadness. So much goddamn sadness. Her eyes bore into his, searching for answers to unasked questions. Answers that he couldn’t give. He glanced down again at her hand wrapped around his. When had it become so fragile? A flick and it would crumple. She had once been the strongest person he knew. He made as to hold her wrist in his hand, and then saw the scars. She jerked her hand away and hid it in her pocket, staring him down. Daring him to mention it. Perhaps she had just been strong for too long. He turned back to her eyes. Her heart wrenching eyes. He looked past her at Ethan, who was animatedly telling a story to a few friends, and their eyes met. No, he didn’t love her. But he would still hold her while she cried, comfort her when it seemed the whole world had turned its back on her. He knew that there were some wounds that would never heal, scars that you could never possibly see, but he also knew that she was broken and he wanted to help fix her, help her because he knew that she couldn’t help herself. She saw his answer in his eyes and something resembling a smile flickered across her face. He loved her enough to believe that if saving her meant sacrificing his own happiness he would do it in a heartbeat.

I came home smelling like rain and cigarette smoke and teenage love and my mother grabbed me and said "you better not fall in love" and so I smiled and touched your number that you had slipped in my pocket earlier that day when you said that you were 32 degrees Fahrenheit and I was the sun and I could melt you with my fingertips.

I came home smelling like a hurricane and tequila and lemonade and the lavender flower you tucked behind my ear the night before and the way your shirt hung off of me, lopsided, almost like we were. My mother said to me "you better not fall in love" and I twirled the cheap necklace between my fingers and I smiled to myself, the clasp was broken but I could still feel your cold fingers as you tickled my neck when you first put it on me.

I came home smelling like thunderstorms and fire and breakup songs and rose thorns and cheap vodka that would make me throw up blood and smudged makeup. And the girl you chose had laughed and said ti would always be her and never me. And my mother just looked at me with pity.

For four months I smelled like overcast drizzles and fog and cheap takeout pizza and dirty clothes and tear stains on pillows and broken songs about love. I hadn't left the house since you left. And my mother stayed outside my room to make sure I stayed alive through the night while I cried myself to sleep.

Three weeks later I met a boy who wasn't so cold and gave me some inner peace and offered me his shirt so I could sleep in and hold tight and smell his scent lingering on it when I missed him. And I came home smelling like fresh rain after a long drought and clean laundry and happy music and laughter. But I told myself I better not dare fall in love.

But I did anyways.

For nine months I came home smelling like a sense of security and everything safe and good and happy and hopeful. This boy stuck by my side and gave me the world and the stardust in his beautiful brown eyes melted my heart and his laugh was music to my ears. Some days I still come home smelling of gloomy weather and dragging feet and downcast stares avoiding the world. And my mother reminds me I fell in love and I smile because I fell hard and broke all my bones and he was there to pick them up for me.

And one day he came home smelling like pot and bourbon and nothing good and he told me he no longer loved me. And my mother looked on as I asked him to take his hoodies and love notes and good morning texts and all the memories we had made.

For one week I smelled like downpours and broken music and unkempt hair and shattered hopes and torn up love letters. It hit me then, what my mother had been warning me, that she had left out the last part of her cautionary advice. "Don't you fall in love... with anybody but yourself."

Now I smell of messy art and soft music and burning candles and forgotten hurts.

Streetlights blooming 

on the arms of pink dogwoods

He twirls the glass

in his hand

reading snippets of words

Grey eyes traveling backwards

Away from the scrambled tables at the back

of the smoke-clotted diner

just the teasing door swinging in and out

unapologetic laughters leaning lazily against it

There she is

Just outside the frosted window

Her blonde hair

a loose towel around her shoulders

She taps

and writes on the glass:

The night is calling me

<3

He drizzles his drink carefully

over the overcooked potatoes

and dry meat

Much to the waitress's distress

ships the whole plate off