I don't know what happened to this app (website??). If I could delete my account I would. But I can't. Now, I write for me, on my own, pretty often. I share my writings with the people I feel deserving of reading them. I hope everyone who reads this finds their community they thrive in. I'm never going to come on this website again. But I will continue to exist on here. Kind of crazy to think about. Middle school me didn't intend to become infinite. 17 year old me writes happier things, not searching for eyes to find approval in. I hope you all post here to express, not to appease.

See ya!!

As dusk rests over the city, his eyes gleam louder. He stares at me as the police smash his head down on the car. What he's going in for? I can't say, what hasn't he done. Did someone snitch or did someone confess? Is it for that time they kidnapped the mayor's girl or for the time Rudy sold to middle schoolers? Whatever it is, someone finally decided he should be held accountable. I watch from the park bench, with my legs crossed and coffee dripping over my knuckles. The police showed suddenly, quickly scooping Rudy into their dangerous arms. One officer looked me up and down funny, but didn't do nothing. They weren't here to scratch up innocent black kids, they were just here for one, Rudy.

"Ma'am?" A younger officer, maybe 19, comes up to me with a nervous face.

"Yes?" I say, turning my head slightly, still keeping my eye on Rudy and the cops smashing his face in.

"They want to take you in for questioning, but I convinced them to just let me question you here. Are you okay with that?" I flash him a smile, showing my gold canine.

"Of course, officer. What are your questions?" Keeping up a polite appearance is my best asset. That's why Rudy always sent me in as a distraction, people like looking at me, talking with me, experiencing me.

The boy stumbles a bit but manages a coherent sentence.

"What was your relationship with this man," he looks down at the paper in his scrawny hand, "Rudy." I chuckle. Leave it to the police to not know who they're even arresting.

"He was a boy I met in school. He had contacted me earlier this week, he wanted to catch up." The young sergeant nods.

"And do you know of any other offences he might have committed? Perhaps to someone you both knew from high school?"

"Nope," I say swiftly. Not the time to get into all that, never the time. That's what he'd always say when I asked him. "Not the time to talk about that Morgan." Him and his thick breath and playboy eyes.

"Whelp. I have an appointment. I'm not surprised your taking him in. He wasn't ever the best kid," I say, getting up gracefully from my park bench.

"An appointment? At 6:00?" The officer interrogates. I look from the car driving my Rudy away, back to the boy who thinks he can change the world for the better.

"A date. Call it a date," I say coldly. I collect my things and turn to leave.

"Ma'am."

"What?" I turn suddenly and bore my eyes into him.

"Your name would be nice. And number, in case we need to contact you," he says through vocal tremors. I look down to the pen and paper he's handing me, quickly grab it and jot down my information in a way I pray isn't legible.

The next day, I get a call from the country jail. I sigh as I hesitate. I've been sitting next to the landline in my apartment all day, waiting for his call. Ignoring him would be the best thing to do. It's what I want to do, but a good girlfriend would never do that, would she? And who knows? He might say something stupid if I don't answer, and get me stuck in there alongside his sorry ass.

"Hello Rudy," I say through a sigh after I drag the phone to my ear.

"Actually this isn't Rudy," a voice I recognize says through the phone. I straighten, scramble my brain back into the polite successful woman I play for the police.

"Oh? Then who am I speaking too?"

"The officer that questioned you last night. I shouldn't be doing this, but I wanted to invite you out for coffee or something. Anything you feel like. I just-" He stops. Coffee? A date? With a pig? I have to hold in my laughter! Is he even in his twenties yet?

"Officer," I say.

"Yes?"

"This is quite inappropriate, isn't it?"

"I-," he pauses for some seconds, "yeah. It is. Sorry, I just-"

"Tell Rudy to call me please. I want to here how he's doing." And with that I hang up.

That was kind of funny. Kind of cute too. A date, huh?

Part of me definitely doesn't want Rudy to call, in fact, it's the last thing I want. But the other part of me carves to know he wasn't shot after "he reached for an officers gun" or because "he lashed out against a sergeant". And I've always had to be the one to keep him in line, stop him from slipping all our secrets. Might be why we ended up together. I've always been good at putter a muzzle over his loud mouth.

After a day of waiting for his call, I have to leave the stuffy place. It may be my home, but it is not a place I'd like to stay in all day. If he doesn't want to call me, fine. I leave and when I go into the world with no destination in mind I often end up here. The cemetery. This grave.

Tobias McDaniels

1997 - 2015

He was an accident. A causality, we've called it that since it happened. But the older I get the less I want to call it that. Fuckin' Rudy. Always Rudy fucking up lives. Ordering other people to do it with him. Tobias, Avery, Jonathan, Mine, his own, just to name a few. I sigh, staring at the stone, leaning lopsided. It wasn't like that last time I was here. Maybe Rudy got high and did something stupid, wouldn't be the first time. Probably not the last either.

As I ponder high school and the events that led to this kids' untimely demise, I hear footsteps. I turn, almost hoping for it to be Rudy. It's not. It's the scrawny sergeant. His blonde hair shines more in the full moon and he's out of uniform. He's shocked to see me.

"Umm Morgan? I didn't expect to see you here." I side glance the officer as he takes a stand next to me. Staring down at the stone he says, "I'm sorry for the call, it was-"

"How did you know him?" I ask. Not out of curiosity, out of fear. Please don't say family. Please don't say family.

"Family. He was my older brother." I sigh. Oh god. Family members are always the ones to never give up. The ones that don't settle for just an answer the police provides, they want the truth.

"You knew him in school?"

"Yeah," I say quietly. A few moments of awkward silence, which I'm sure he viewed as calming, pass by.

"It sucked when he died," he chuckles to himself a bit, "Wrong place at the wrong time. That's what the police told us. I think he was targeted but I suppose you never know. Stray bullet just seems so hard to believe, you know?"

I feel sweat dripping down my throat as I gulp.

"Yeah." Stray bullet was the story the police got? Damn. How wrong could that be? Wrong place at the wrong time, sure, but stray bullet. No. Rudy said he needed to die. It's not my fault I can aim from far away.

"You ever think they'll open the investigation again," I ask with a hopeful tone I hope he doesn't understand the meaning behind.

"Actually, part of the reason I joined the force. I'll make them if I have to."

I stare at him. He's rock solid, a crease arching his brows and a icy gaze falling over his eyes. He's a threat, an enemy. A danger, but despite the panic growing in my gut I scramble my brain again, doing what I do best. Using my best asset.

"I think that date would be nice right about now."

He turns to me with a sad grin.

"Really?" I stare for a moment. Waiting for my brain to finalize my answer.

"Yes, officer."

On my last night on earth,

I will revisit every troubling memory,

every sour weekend,

and every sweet one too.

On my last night on earth,

I will compliment every person in the halls,

“I like your outfit”

“your hair fits your face so well”

“your eyes are so pretty”

My small cry for lighthearted remembrance.

On my last night on earth,

I will eat like a queen.

I will sit in the restaurant

too expensive for us

and order the whole menu.

On my last night on earth,

I will drive down to the police station

in a newly stolen car,

and shoot each pig square in the forehead.

On my last night on earth,

I will drive down to the cemetery

and cry at the grave

that holds the last tie I have to my culture,

my dad.

On my last night on earth,

I will climb onto the ledge

and swear on the stars,

that I once counted with my first love,

one last time.

On my last night on earth,

I will lay out each handwritten letter

for each person that affected my life.

I will draw a smile on the ones who saved it

and spit on the ones who ruined it

On my last night on earth,

I will call 911,

jump,

and set myself free.

The bathroom floor freezes with the granite sparkling from being freshly washed. My hands rub the floor, shiny and fresh. I don’t dare look up from the random flooring. My eyes stay glued to the solid ground, jumping from one orange spot to another as an attempt to calm myself. Despite my blurred vision the orange dots stand out. My heart slows but only for a few short moments. I want to look up, stare myself down in the mirror and not let go of my own stare. Force this panic back down into the depths it crawled out of. Force my ribs to let go of my lungs and let them breath. I don’t do that though. I never can. I want the courage to do so, I want to be flooded with relief when I look in any mirror, however, I never am. Only fear comes from mirrors. Fear and panic.

I have had like two panic attacks in my life, but I find them very fun to write.

Her funeral wasn’t as sad as i expected it to be. I thought i would drown in my tears, bury myself under my sweater, and never let myself leave the cheap metal folding chairs. It wasn’t though. Maybe because people didn’t talk, or was i just not soaking in what they were saying. I love her, I loved her more then a child loves a sunny day, more then a girl loves a pretty rose on the first date, more then i loved myself. I should’ve been sadder, despite being her secret, i still soaked in her affection, clang to her words like rain clings to clouds until it just has to let go. Just like me. I had to let her go, but letting go should’ve involved tears. I just felt numb at the ceremony.

I was watching this movie. Now I don’t cry at movies, shows, books, etc. I read and watch stuff all the time. Any realistic fiction is my favorite, so I gotta except some sad stuff. I’m used to it, I know when it’s coming. I’ve learned to predict and mentally prepare. So when I tell you I don’t cry at these things, I mean I really don’t cry at these things. Unless I’m delirious at six am.

SPOILERS: Holding the Man

However, this movie was very sad. I didn’t think it would be sad, it wasn’t necessarily advertised like that. I wasn’t complaining though. It was the story of two high school sweethearts that managed to make it through getting outed and going to separate universities. I thought it was some cute gay love story with good representation of my community. I was enjoying it despite the main characters weird wigs and hair styles. However, I quickly remembered this movie takes place in the 1980s and 90s. Right during the aids crisis, in case you didn’t know that. Slowly you watch as their lives crumble into each other. They’re in their early twenties with a new diagnosis of HIV/aids. You watch them go through cycles of feeling it will end soon, “with people dropping dead it’s impossible to ignore. A cure is definitely coming” and coming to terms with the fact that their lives together could be cut in half. Soon one of them gets diagnosed with cancer. I don’t think it’s ever said what cancer it is, however, it’s easy to gather that he wouldn’t have it if he didn’t have aids. His partner, the other main character, is diagnosed with manic depression, bipolar disorder nowadays, while grappling with this new reality of machines, drugs, and white walls. Skip 30 minutes and a lot of emotional distress, it’s happening. He’s about to die, it’s coming to an end after so much of worthless fighting. And if you’ve ever lost someone to cancer you know how incredibly terrible it is to watch someone completely deteriorate in front of your eyes after taking every ounce of straining power in them left to keep a place in the world. In the scene it goes silent, with only his struggling breathing coming through your computer’s speakers and it slows…slowly…until the last, tiny wheeze sounds and no more come after.

You’d expect me to cry at that scene but I don’t. I hold my breath, sure, but I don’t cry. Not yet, anyway.

After the characters around him slowly realize he’s passed it cuts to his lover having a complete breakdown. He’s sobbing, that type of sobbing that causes you to not be able to breathe. The type of sobbing that debilitates you to the point of exhaustion. You feel yourself collapsing inward and the only thing you can manage your body to do is curl up into itself. It’s that type of sobbing and that’s when I cracked. That’s when I started crying, not the debilitating cry or a single tear, a crying in between the two, like most cry’s. I cried slowly for the rest of that movie and after. It ends quickly after his death by telling you that this was a true story, based on a memoir written by the surviving lover. You learn that he finished writing the book ten day before his own death in 1994. Slowly the credits fade in after you’re shown, the same picture the actors took themselves, of two young boys sitting on a lonely patch of grass with faces similar to the actors, but not quite identical.

Your eyes spoke

volumes

to me across the small house.

I should’ve been distracted

by the flashing lights,

the moving bodies,

and the giant noises everywhere.

However, your eyes were always something I

noticed.

They were always there

watching

waiting

for me to look back.

At the next party

I thought it was a coincidence

that those eyes found me again.

I thought those piercing yellows,

mixed with a slight tent of green,

were temporary,

gone after the last party.

And yet,

they were back.

I fought the urge

to move my body slightly closer to those eyes.

A couple steps to the left

and I would no longer be in the center

of the dance floor, but rather,

slightly closer to you.

But I stopped

random hookups in high school.

I’m sure that was all you wanted after all.

After a few more parties your eyes became more

apparent.

More

forceful.

More

there.

They didn’t hold the same tone as before.

They looked more unbalanced,

unstable.

I had grown custom to those eyes.

I knew them.

They were calming,

relatable,

excitable,

beautiful.

But these eyes were new.

There were new ceases

making them curve differently,

new hues making them look

unnatural.

I didn’t like it.

Despite never looking back at you,

I know exactly how those eyes were

meant to look.

And I didn’t like these new ones.

After more outings,

I want to give in.

I want to go over,

to your smug little corners you always find

to watch me,

and ask what changed?

Why do they look so different?

Why are your eyes drifting?

Why do you feel less involved?

Is there someone else?

Was I not good enough?

I don’t.

But I

really

want to.

At the next party,

I look up at you.

I break every rule

I have ever put in place for myself

And reach out.

Our eyes meet

for seconds

I feel the world swell with quickening heartbeats,

my chest fill with clean air,

and my mind racing with long missed euphoria.

However, I break contact quickly

with a wink

and look away.

Not my best moment,

but holding your eyes was just too

difficult,

gut-retching,

too against my nature.

At the next party,

you’re definitely closer.

Not a hovering eagle watching over anymore.

You’re more physically close.

That same unstable look that

suddenly became apparent earlier

is still there,

but it’s more charming now

then anything else.

I debate going up to you,

hearing your voice for the first time,

maybe touching you.

I settle for next time I will.

Rule-bending has never been a skill of mine.

Rules were not made to be broken by me.

This party is slower.

I chose it specifically for this moment.

It’s all planned perfectly.

The atmosphere is magnificent.

The moment I go up to you I’m

starstruck.

Your shock makes that fondness in me

even stronger.

Your voice is more gorgeous then you eyes.

Something incredibly difficult to achieve.

The honey that drips off your vocal chords

tastes sweet to any ear, but especially mine.

However, your face up close is a masterpiece.

Every tiny detail

that makes up the human face

has managed to be flawless

on you.

We quickly leave the party,

taking turns complaining

about various things

on the car ride to my house.

And even though that might not be the

most romantic

thing in the world,

it’s still beautiful.

Once we walk past my door

everything comes crumbling down.

Months of waned off stares,

feelings of frustration,

and layers of fabrics.

I was excited.

Maybe too excited.

I came to love the way you caressed my face,

tugged at my lip,

kissed my thighs,

moaned my name.

I loved every part of it.

And the excitement I felt afterwards,

laying in a heap of blankets and limbs curled lovely around each other on my bed,

was enough to send someone to the moon.

However, after sleep finally took me over.

As I was afraid it would, you vanished.

I woke up in a pile of my own blankets and

self-pity.

Last night anything was possible.

This morning nothing would ever make of those opportunities.

You left me a note on my nightstand.

Not disingenuous, just

effortless.

I sat thinking of the signs.

I just couldn’t seem to find any.

Maybe reality decided I needed a moment of

clarity,

so it tricked me into thinking something

good,

real,

could happen for me, for once.

We had a romantic night, I thought,

but maybe that’s just my delusional brain

at play again.

I just really thought this time would be it.

I knew rules weren’t meant to be broken.

I just thought I’d give it one last try,

for romance.

If I had known that doing that would create this mess I never would have. Late that night, doing our routine, closing spaces, breaking our oath to the lord, I made the mark. It was common place for you to tap on my window, for my hand to tug on my lamp, and for my tired steps to drag towards the window to let you in. I never disliked it. You showed up needy and hungry and I was just so excited that you wanted me. Leaving that spot on your adam’s apple allowed me to convince myself that this was still exciting, and new, and positive, and something I wanted because you wanted it. The layering over your adam’s apple tinted with a patch of red that slowly bled to purple over time. I thought you would hide it, rock a turtle neck to avoid exposing yourself as a sex-enjoying slut. That’s what my sister always told me to do, but I guess, now that I think about it, you never had a sister, or any siblings, to tell you that. Boys must have more confidence, especially more than some non-binary weirdo like me. It’s not weird, I shouldn’t be like that to myself, but come on me. Get a fucking grip. When he showed up to school he showed, danced it around in front of everyone as if he was looking for a reason for his girlfriend to despise him more. I could hear their whispering everywhere, infecting the air around me. Their words crawled up the small tunnels on each side of my head, and nested themselves into the small, pink, squishy think that controls my miserable functioning. The hellfire was too much for me. Excusing myself from english, felt like an eleven year task with the ancient woman attempting to teach over the insulting sentences spewing out of ever teenagers mouth that day. Whore, slut, and any other unholy word one would use to describe someone with an OBVIOUS hickey. Once I got out of the smallest room imaginable, I crawled myself over to the bathroom across the biggest hall imaginable. I was tugging at the air that had somehow liquidated into mud or maybe quicksand is a better word. I felt swallowed, small, impossible. Everything felt impossible, I felt impossible. My breathe was gone, my lungs had probably fallen out of ass from the night before. The walls of the bathroom had nothing to stable myself with, gripping solid wall isn’t possible so I sat down and avoided looking up into the mirror to see my panicked face. Once the bell rang I knew I had leave so I picked up my fallen bag and somehow crawled my way out of school and to the park down the street. It was the park we had met at, he had kissed me at, and the park he’d made so many promises at. It calmed me though, my lungs had regrown, my legs had restabilized, and my brain had fought off their overbearing words. Suddenly, hands pushed the swing I had peaceful been sitting on. I could tell they were his, how could I not. I remember hearing him talk, but I can never remember what about. Nothing serious. He told me he didn’t do serious. How could anyone do serious with me. This wicked, self-centered alien that can’t chose a fucking gender.

It was probably fun for him to dance around that he’d been fucked the night before. Especially, fun in front of his girlfriend whose eyes somehow managed to sink deeper into her skull every time I saw her again. I should’ve stopped, I should’ve cared more about everyone else. I should’ve cared more about her, but he probably would’ve found another person to rub in her face. But what if he hadn’t. What if he’d only settle on me and if I had cut it off this wouldn’t of happened. God I could never understand what his deal was. He made sure she knew he was with another person. Rubbed it in her face, all over body. He stained her with the shame of not being good enough and it showed. Showed through the cuts that occasionally slipped from under her skirt, the cigarettes she stashed in her bra with the outline of the box getting more obvious every time she skipped a lunch period and probably family dinner too. I knew she was dying and I went along with it. “Not your fault” I said to the bathroom mirrors whenever I felt the slightest bit of courage while panicking.

I hadn’t known until the funeral that she had actually died before the car crash. She had slit her wrists in the car and her mother was trying so hard to help her from the drivers seat that it sent them into a life-ending ditch. He went to that funeral, spoke at it even. His tears seemed real, his words seemed real, and that mark on his neck was definitely real.

Simple love is saying hello to the same person every morning and getting a different answer back each time. Simple love is knowing a day or week away won’t break your foundation. Having someone that gets more interesting and exciting every time you exchange words. This love could be hidden in plain sight. The quiet girl that sits behind you in french class and has the tinniest sneezes only you ever hear. The new intern that you want so badly to make fun of, but the possible guilt, coupled with their cute dimples, makes you think “better not”. Maybe the girl that hands you coffee through the Starbucks window with a golden nose ring and a bored look that somehow perks up whenever you order. Somewhere in your life that simple love will blossom and when it does you must understand that, like a flower, that love won’t always be so simple.

This is kinda a weird annoying post but oh well. I suggest doing this to anyone feeling anxious or restless or overly angry and anything just overall negative. This can be therapeutic.

I’m in my car right now. Not typing and driving, of course, a friend is in the drivers seat. I’ve been thinking. The other day I learned the difference between being black and African American. Isn’t that just fucking pathetic. That’s how much my county, school system, society has failed me. I didn’t even know the difference between myself and someone who had immigrated here from Africa by choice. Yes, despite my profile picture I am black. That’s just a pretty picrew I made. Shoutout to you if you know what that is. Anyway, when I think about America I’m just angry.

I’m angry at the corrupt systems.

I’m angry at the white students that fill my school.

I’m angry at the people that can speed without worrying.

I’m angry at the people who use religion as a justification for oppression.

I’m angry at the people that don’t get vaccines because they choose to believe shit-science (no offense to the people that have genuine reasons).

I’m angry at the people who think they/them pronouns are impossible to use in a singular context.

I’m angry at people who call asians white.

I’m angry at people who think I’m disgusting when I don’t where a bra.

I’m angry at doctors who play god at the expense of their patients.

I’m angry at people who think bisexual people who date the opposite sex are actually just straight.

I’m angry at people who think cutting back on fossil fuel production will ruin the economy.

I’m angry at the top 1% for building their riches on the backs of others.

I’m angry at people who think just because some people detransition means transgender people aren’t real.

I’m angry at the people who blame rape victims.

I’m angry at people who think sexism is solved.

I’m angry at people who want to control my body.

I’m angry at people who treat people with mental illnesses as less than human.

I’m angry at people who treat people with any sort of mental and/or physical disability as less than human.

I’m angry at people who let thousands of people die in mass shootings in the name of freedom.

I’m angry at people period and I could definitely list more, but I’m at my destination.

And I wish I wasn’t this fucking mad cause my life is infinitely better then millions and still my brain, and the people referenced up there, don’t let me enjoy it. Cause I try to enjoy my life but my brain just can’t focus on anything but the shit going on. The shit unfairly affecting me and millions of other people who don’t deserve it. The people I’ve listed, and more, are the cause of that shit. This isn’t a post I’m very proud of, but I always feel a little better after making a list.

i’m getting anxiety just thinking about posting this lol