I like the way he's looking at me,

His blue eyes are alight with desire...

He likes to push every boundary I set,

We like burning, and playing with fire...

He pursues,

I run,

I duck and I cover,

Then I look back, is he giving chase?

With a satisfied grin, I take off again;

'Til he catches me in his embrace.

For just a few minutes or a few months,

We're in love, we're head over heels.

Then he starts to panic, then I get manic;

And we're running again from the feels.

This time it's him, he's running so fast;

I run after like a bat out of hell.

All the while knowing I'm acting a fool,

Slim chance for this love to end well.

"Darling, come back!" I'm calling his name.

Who needs pride? I'm not above pleading.

I show him my tears, he exploits my fears,

He says, "God, you're gorgeous when you're bleeding."

I remind him he swore to be my rock.

I remind him of the promises he made.

Tricks I was taught, lies that I bought,

I'll say whatever it takes to persuade.

Until I'm exhausted, I'm out of breath;

I'm slowing, I can't run anymore.

He's so far beyond,

he's missing,

he's gone.

But all's fair in both love and war.

Looking over his shoulder, so far ahead;

He can see I've fallen too far behind.

And now he's unsure, like me, insecure;

He's worried that I changed my mind.

"What are you doing?" He yells from afar.

I'm stomping away in a huff.

"I'm sick of your shit!" I let him have it.

Our love hurts, and I've had enough.

I'm finished with us, I'm done with him.

I take off in a whole new direction.

"Babes, come back!" He's calling my name.

He never learned to handle rejection.

I refuse to look back, I keep pressing on,

He deserves to feel just how it hurts.

Our love is twisted, it's broken like us;

Maybe this pain is our just deserts.

He's in pursuit, I'm running away;

I glance back and blow him a kiss.

He's drawing near, he's almost here,

I let him catch me, I can't resist.

He grabs my waist, pulls me in close,

A magic moment, until the moment is gone.

Then he's running away, I'm ready to play;

It's my turn to give chase. Game on!

Sitting by a steamy window,

I see my love

in embroidered dreams

walk right on by

and still I wait

alone, I cry

staring into someday.

She watches him cut his food,

so nonchalant,

as if her world doesn't stop spinning

at the gesture

Then, she achingly watches

as he raises the fork to his mouth

Filled with envy

as it is about to touch his lips.

Good Morning, Prosers,

This blog piece is a little different from the usual, I (@sammielee46) am not writing this in my usual Prosey voice, with Prose at the forefront of my mind, I am writing it as me, the woman who just so happens to work at Prose.

I am tackling a sensitive subject and I hope that those of you who read it find me writing about personal experience somewhat comforting and perhaps slightly hopeful if any of you are going through a period of darkness. That being said, I touch upon the subject of suicide and mental illness and felt it appropriate to disclose that fact before you start reading.

The whole team have discussed what we can do to help those of Prose who are in crisis; above and beyond providing a safe place to share your words. It is from this conversation that we would like to announce a new profile for any Proser to contact if they are in crisis. It is a profile run by the team. We as individuals believe everyone deserves to be heard, and we are here to listen. @shadowcounselor is the profile handle and is there for you to talk to someone should you find yourself in difficulty.

Since the birth of social media, writers have begun to find the strength and courage to share their words with others, unsurprisingly, some of those posts have been posts coming from a place of deep emotional pain. As writers, we purge those feelings across the page, the ugliness of our inner-demons leaving trails of pixelated pain with every word we type.

It’s no secret that there have been numerous medical papers written to prove the psychological benefits writing has upon those of us who have suffered with mental health problems.

I am writing this piece from a place of understanding. Mental health difficulties have been prevalent throughout my childhood, and my adult years, touching family members, friends, and even myself.

I recall the first time I brushed up against the cruelty of depression was with my mother at the age of around 11. She suffered a nervous breakdown whilst she was at work and I will always remember the look of emptiness that rested on her expression for months afterward. She was put on the strongest medication possible, and at that point, I’d lost my mum as I had previously known her. I became a mother to my mother, I was no longer a child. I had to step up and it was the first time I knew true fear. What I didn’t understand then, was how much strength and courage she had.

Mental illness is no joke, it can change your life forever. It’s debilitating and still often a taboo subject, a subject that heartless people often question, even now, in this day and age. For someone who has just had a nervous breakdown, or a panic attack, just getting out of bed takes an inner strength that would never have been used before. I saw this within my mum. She may have been a walking zombie because of her meds, but she was still fighting.

I remember questioning my granddad's way of dealing with my mother; “Think yourself a pair of curtains and pull yourself together.” This was not the way to speak to someone whose mind and soul wanted to sleep for an eternity. This wasn’t the way to help my mum. In fact, I’m sure she’d tell you right now that it made her worse. She was already placing enough pressure upon herself to “get better” and those kinds of phrases, only exacerbated her self-berating when she wasn’t feeling any better.

Her moods were interchangeable and I felt so hopeless. She became suicidal and sat alone one night while I was in bed, with a plethora of tablets ready to take her own life. Why didn’t she? Because she saw a picture of her children, of my brother and me, and chose to stay for us.

Years pass and she still has the dark days, the days where the black clouds descend and you can’t see through the thick fog of depression, but she also has good ones now, the type where the sky is blue, and the sea is clear; where you can see the horizon and the breaking of dawn in the distance. I wish she had Prose way back when, and I wish she’d utilise Prose now, but she doubts herself too much to even put pixel to page.

My own personal journey with depression and anxiety, comes directly from the fear I felt in my childhood, the grief I felt after losing my grandmother to cancer, the trauma from giving birth to a seriously unwell child and feeling like I was to blame, like I grew her wrong, the feelings of being a constant disappointment to everyone around me, the sheer disgust I felt with myself that I would never amount to anything because I was too dumb, or just not good enough.

My first panic attack came from nowhere, it crippled me, I cannot even tell you what triggered it. I was lost in a haze of smoke filled panic, that filled my lungs and suffocated me at the throat. Of course, I panicked even more, resulting in cold sweats, tingly fingers, a racing heart, and a thought train that could be heard across the globe from its supersonic boom from surpassing the speed barrier.

I have always been a friendly character, one who is quite sociable to those whom I “let in,” but this event left me shutting myself away. Panic attack number one was the first of many during that evening, and the days following. When I look back upon it now, I can see the subsequent attacks were me overthinking what had just happened and bringing on more panic because of that.

For the two weeks that followed that evening, I slept my panic away. It was the only time I didn’t feel anxious. At this point in time, I was freelancing within the world of marketing so I took that time away and literally hibernated in my bed, scared that I would never be the same again.

Writing has always been something I love, I started writing stories at the age of four, and I turned my back on it. I was truly crippled by the fear of feeling the way that I did before. Until I picked up my pen and paper and started writing about the darkness that was consuming me.

I wrote and I wrote. It was painful, scary too, but when I had finished and put the period at the end of the last sentence I wrote, I felt proud that I had manage to externalise all of the pain and fear that I was trying to compartmentalise inside. I was scared that if I wrote it out, it would become more true; I certainly wouldn’t have spoken about my problems out loud, just thinking about them made me anxious.

I learned something from writing those feelings there.

It took strength. A strength I never knew I had. Not only that but it made me feel slightly better. The more I wrote, the more I started to feel the mist ascend, and I was lucky to have the power of words to aid me through my torment. That is for sure.

I think back to the time that our closest family friend ended up with severe depression and anxiety; she was the happiest woman I knew, so bubbly and exuberant, full of laughter and smiles. We had no idea the sheer black she harboured within her soul. That was until her daughter called us and told us that her mother had hung herself from her roof rafters. She had taken her own life because death, the unknown, was the easiest solution, rather than sticking with what she knew, pain and distress. I sometimes wonder, if she wrote out her thoughts and feelings, in a poem or journal, whether she would still be here.

I’ve lost a friend through suicide, I have had friends attempt suicide, and family members who have used self-harm to try and purge their pain. I wish they would pick up a pen, or use Prose to expel what I know causes them deep emotional pain. But they don’t and I will forever recommend that they do because of my personal experience with words.

The whole point of me sharing an insight into my own personal relationship with mental health problems is to illustrate one thing; words may not heal, but they help. Every one of us here feels. Every one of us will have a point in our lives where the thoughts that overcome us are not pretty ones. It’s what we do with those thoughts and how we release those pains that counts.

Prose has such a wonderful community. One full of supportive, understanding, and caring individuals. It’s a place where there isn’t judgement upon the words you write or the thoughts you project. It truly is a safe haven for all of us to eject the unwanted pieces of our minds, without fear of rebuttal, without worry that we are wrong for feeling the way we do. This is what makes Prose, Prose. A unique place, our home for many reasons.

I want to extend my ear to anyone who feels as though they cannot pick up their digital pen and scribble those thoughts down, for whatever reason. Why? Because we have a voice, and we all deserve the right to be heard.

If any of you ever find yourselves in crisis, that is what the @shadowcounselor profile is there for. To be heard, less of judgement. I am no professional therapist, but one thing I can promise is that I will listen without judgement or prejudice, and I know my fellow teammates will join me within my endeavour.

Until next time, Prosers,

Sammie.

The Potentate's eyes fell on her,

His lips twirled behind his bushy beard.

Her roundness was perfectly placed,

He felt her through his eyes in naked disgrace.

He sent a diamond or two to get her attention,

She refused his lusty fascination.

For she had a lover of her own,

The theatre owner's youngest son.

They hid in corners after every act,

Their feelings hidden like a secret pact.

It was easy for her, she was the lead actress,

But for him, not meeting her meant distress.

One such evening, after an applauding play,

He wooed her into a venereal foray,

His tongue moved up her spine as she stood,

His organ pressing her for good,

She moaned in pleasure as his hand ran under,

Their lips locked in a playful banter,

She fell on the silk, sprawled on her bed,

He fell on her, numb and dead,

She gasped for air for a moment or two,

Her eyes opened to see the Potentate, she had refused,

He devoured her nakedness in his breath,

And pushed himself inside, as she spread,

She moaned and gasped in sensual pleasure,

He reached inside her where the boy could never,

She sold her soul to become his queen,

The passion in his eyes had a murderous gleam.

The dead boy's eyes witnessed the naked dance of betrayal,

She too lay dead, for accepting the King's proposal.

© CopyRight Vibha Lohani 2016

He stood there,

more perfect than any one man

had the right to be

And he was hers

His voice carried a smile

that reverberated through flesh,

awakening the soul

And he was hers

His love had a depth

that most could only hope

to drown in

And he was hers

He was more than the best parts

of every other man she had ever met

all combined into one

And he was hers

And she was his

Morning Prosers,

Week eighteen is upon us and the weeks are just flying by.

Last week we all donned our capes and spoke of how we abuse our superpowers. You did not disappoint. There are some movies in the making right there.

Before we go ahead and announce the winner of that challenge, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:

Prose Challenge of the Week #18: Write about murder. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100. When sharing to Twitter, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge

This is your chance to commit murder, so get creative.

So, onto last week’s winner. We have read every piece, and deliberated as a team. The winner of the Prose Challenge of the Week #17 is @HauntedEquinox with “The Healer.” Congratulations, we will be in touch shortly to organise transfer of funds!

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

her thighs part like the red sea

and i speak only in tongues

a liquid language, we are a fluid people

a shared undertow

pulling into each other

wave after wave

after another

supernovas in stomachs show

we are offspring of the stars,

salt of the earth

rubbing skin like sandpaper,

light of the world

burning cheeks and melding fingers

jesus, she shivers

judas,

i whisper

judas

i never thought i'd do this—

betray faith for

something silver,

something stable

we worship nothing

but we praise resurrection

of our stumbling souls

piece by piece,

we build jericho in minutes

just to come crashing down

until we are whole