I searched the cupboards. The shelves of dusty adolescent books. Even checked under the stained blankets in the garage. But every dark nook, every spiderwebbed corner, and every cluttered drawer contained everything except what I wanted.

I slouched on our kitchen's wobbly barstools. It was hopeless. I’d never find it.

Tapping my fingers on the cold granite, I watched the bones in my hands wiggle in a grotesque dance.

I just want to share. My story. My work.

I want someone to follow the path I laid. To hear the words I say. To touch the seeds I grew.

Is that too much to ask? That someone enjoys my time. That the things I did matter. Am I weak for seeking validation? Or do I just not matter? Is it selfish to talk about myself? To pester you to care?

It's just another word. Another smile. Another ‘aha!’ moment.

I’m excited.

Why aren’t you?

Don't look up now

Do you feel that?

A hot breath

On your ear?

Do you hear that?

No! Do not look away

Because the second your eyes

Leave this page

My hands

Will grasp

Your

Neck

*Snap*

Where ocean and earth collide

Will you be by my side?

Wandering the coast

I search for who I love the most

Eyes milky and choked

I know

I am just a ghost

I’ve died

But you are still alive

And for you

I have a surprise

I will find you

Where ocean and earth divide

You will take your final breath tonight

That’s why you gonna find a second

a third, a fourth . . . a tenth

You gotta keep going ’till one of them feels right

First idea: Bonsai tree leaves, new growth

Second idea: Velvet bodice, handsewn dress

Third idea: Spilt ink on paper, stained fingertips

. . .

Ninth idea: Leather arm brace, nothing to protect

Tenth idea: Sheer curtains, block out sight, not light

Shame, none of these ideas feel right

Alright fine then . . .

Bonsai tree, yellow leaves,

Velvet bodice, handsewn dress,

A hand that reaches, ink-black fingertips,

A porcelain cup she fills,

And feeds the dying life,

Leather arm brace clutching a pale arm,

She smiles gently,

For she has nothing to protect,

Sunlight streams through misty curtains

Concealed from cutting eyes

She swallows the sun

And allows only the good to stream in

It is pasted together. Grubby with the petals children have pulled from the head of roses and sunflowers. Its bones are fuzzy with cherry red and envy green pipe cleaners that have been cut and twisted—disregarded in wire mess wastebaskets. Its eyes are the many bits of lint pulled from deep pockets and wads of spiderlike string that has been rolled between thumbs and fingers. It blinks and a mouth carved from tiny scissors reveals needlepoint thumbtacks that glisten in its cloth scrap maw.

It is tall and skeletal thin with a belly that caves in. It hungers but it is weak. It collects the used and useless things cast from uncaring hands and with them builds its rising form. It waits in delighted agony. Waits for the rolled pieces of cartoon stickers, for snapped hair ties, bent needles, scattered confetti, and plastic pieces. And the more waste that is left astray, the stronger the creature becomes. Until its head—dripping with bleach, flaming oil, and stark blue antifreeze—touches the greasy sky and its long radioactive arms stretch around the grey earth.

Its mouth, now filled with rusted excavators, fallen planes, collapsed steel beams, and all matter of sharp manmade things, opens wide. And as a hot breath of burning tires, of asphalt, and of gasoline sweeps over the earth, the creature will take one big bite and swallow down the world down.

You know the creature's name. But collective negligence and the unrelenting bite of cooperation's greed force us to ignore the creature. We let it grow and grow. And when it devours our frail, sick bodies, we will only have our own system to blame alongside our own inability to do one simple thing: change.

My name is the only name I know. You ask for skills, for connections, for mentorship . . . you ask for help. But I live untouched. Untouched by your desires, untouched by your world. I wish to help you, I wish to cup my hand over your cheek. To kiss the salted tears from your eyes, but it would only be a comfort, not true help.

I can not gift you a solution.

I can merely gift you my love. And I know, that is not enough, not even close.

Neslted in webbed muscle and

Pulsing artieries

The spring of thought

Pours from your chest

In an a neverending well

It is the mouth of a glittering univerise

Thriving under rooted bone

Freely, you sink a hand into it's depths

And with lifeblood glistening

You water the lips of strangers

I worked hard for you,

Composed words into phrases,

Diluted my thoughts into a cocktail of joys,

And painful truth and I,

I pressed my palms into my eyes when tears,

Beat against them,

I mourned the death of my darling words,

I killed the weak ones and fed them to the strong,

And every day I toiled into the fields of damned letters,

Wrestling with my brain and the hopes that lie dormant,

Within,

But I know,

It is hopeless.

I crafted these words, these lives, these places,

This world,

For you.

I cut through mountains and carved,

Smooth paths for you,

To walk,

And I opened the gates,

And let you stride right into my heart.

But you shat on my throne,

You burned down this home,

A home I had made,

For you,

And you laughed,

You mocked,

You did not care,

And worse.

Some of you dear readers

Did not even embark,

On the path I laid,

You ignored the world I labored over,

And you ignored my soldiered words,

The tired words,

The strong words,

The unheard vowels that echo,

In caverns of unturned pages.

And you, reader, left me with nothing,

Just this untraveled road,

And this writhing heart,

The wasted hours, days,

Years,

Pile upon me like rocks to crush,

And you don't even watch me die,

You don't care.

But why should you?

I am the fallen,

The worthless,

I understand even as I write,

That nothing I can give,

Will be enough,

Nothing I have,

Will be received.

I beg you Reader,

Respect the writer,

They bleed for you,

Give their lives for you,

And in the end,

They emptied their hearts,

Knowing full well,

You would never understand,

No matter how hard we try,

To help you see,

Hear,

Touch,

Taste,

Feel.

But you won't.

You never will.

She collected apricot, plum, and cherry blossoms and arranged them on her laptop. She plucked and placed and stared, loving, smiling. They covered her screen so she could not see the manuscript eating her heart. They covered the errors, the potential, and the pooling time pond. They obliterated that which she could not face. So she went out and carefully she checked limbs and blooms, for the most lovely of things. And held them careful, in keyboard bruised fingertips. She smiled and couldn’t see, she was killing the trees.

I have no song

Every song that might have been mine

Is yours

From the trumpet beats

To the mournful chords

And the raging drums

They are all yours

Every song, every verse,

Every lament we rehearse

To an audience we can only curse

They are yours

But I will find mine

My songs are the quiet ones

The tired ones

With voices you have to strain

To hear

With quiet meaning you never

Listen to

I am without a title

Without an artist

No album embalms my heart

I am the whisper of the breeze

Through skeleton white trees

I am the crash of the fallen

The shatter of the broken

I have no melody to share

My grievances, my demons

Are mine alone to bare

I am the permafrost behind

A far off stare

And I would ask you to beware

Because I am beyond

What is heard

I am

Behind what is felt

I am

That woeful silent

I am

A tone-deaf thing

A pitchless scream

Beyond what the ear

Can feel

I am, I am

I am