this morning the pills

have not been there

kitchen

top cabinet

not there

but of course the world wouldn’t explode

if he didn’t take

the pills for one day

Things were going too fine to

slip downhill now

He didn’t need the pills. It

actually was like the doctor said, the

power was inside him

The power to change

to become better

to leave the past behind. The

power was in him

And in dearest Kyu, his therapy dog,

a small corgi who needed to be walked everyday

He smiled as he thought of Kyu

called him

and Kyu came

and he put the leash on

and went outside

The rain didn’t bother either of them

Only problem during

rainy days

was the lack of other people

to socialize with

People hated rain and that was that

but not him and Kyu

They walked through the park

and the rain grew more intense

fatter drops

heavier

colder

louder

splashing

the little rivulets flowing on the

sides of the streets weren’t

so little anymore

This would turn out to be a total flood

better go back home

Kyu seemed to get the meaning

they turned back

and the rivulets at the sides of the street

grew more potent

and the leash grew lighter

and lighter

Gods! The rivulet carried Kyu away!

Oh God, no! Straight into the

curbside storm drain! In the sewer! Kyuuuuuu!

And there was no one on the streets

not even cars passing

He had to do something

by himself

because no one would help him

nobody ever helped him

He had to pull himself out of this ditch by

himself once

more

Cursing between clenched teeth

he dropped to his knees

and crawled into the

storm drain after his beloved Kyu

He landed on hard concrete and broke

his foot

so badly that

the jagged shinbone protruded through the flesh

and skin and came out like a

blade

He screamed and cried

and cursed the day he was born

and the people in his life

and outside of it

Of course everyone would be outside of it

Nobody would be in his life

not mother

not father

not sister

grandparents

friends?

What friends? He never had any of those

People were cold

people wanted to see him cry

because seeing him cry was their food

and they needed food to stay alive,

they needed to eat

and their hunger was insatiable

they should…just die actually

The dirty water showered all around him

and onto his wound

and onto his head and eyes

but he still saw it

He saw them

carrying Kyu away

dragging him by the paws

towards the darkest spot of the sewer

despite his whimpering protests

He screamed, shouted at them

but they wouldn’t listen

“Hey, you bastards, let him go!”

No, they would not let Kyu go

Words were not enough to

convince people. He had to do something.

He crawled after them

through the cold filth

with pain and determination propelling him

Oh, it was them, of course

Mother and father and sister

they were dragging Kyu away from him

just as they dragged everything away from him

This was too much

He couldn’t let this happen.

Too much!

He crawled after them

crying

screaming

cursing

and reached for his broken shinbone

and pulled it out of the leg

and stabbed them with it

again

and

again

He kept stabbing at their backs

their

heads, their throats, their chests, their arms

everywhere

stab

stab

stab

“Thought you could take

everything away from me

my friends, my life, my love, my soul, my

freedom, my purpose, my way,

my choices, my health, my possibilities, and

now even him,

my dearest Kyu?

Fuck you! I won’t let you! I

won’t let you!”

and he kept stabbing

and stabbing

stab

stab

stab

until that hand just wouldn’t

work anymore

and he fell with his head on Kyu

like on a pillow

as he always did

and darkness came about him

Good night,

Kyu

***

IG: https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/

there was a dead body in the room

Had to be

Else where did the smell

come from?

Every time he’d turn around to catch

a ghost or a zombie

from the corner of his eyes the smell

would slap him

A smell of death

He decided he’d look around for the

dead body

but later

He didn’t have the energy now

or the disposition

or anything

He only wanted to sleep

some more

He just woke up and needed a good

nap to recover

Perhaps there were times when it

didn’t make sense

but now, today, nothing made more

sense that this

All you need is a healthy

dose of chronic depression and it makes

sense

Just like not cleaning the room

and not taking a shower

in a time longer than memory can be

bothered to remember

So he paced back to the bed

and climbed in

and dragged the blanket, heavy with

caked dirt, on his body

and closed his eyes

He fell asleep in spite of

the smell of death

coming closer still

The dreams were always a little bit better

in the nap taken after

waking up from

the night’s sleep

One time he even dreamed he

was a published author. Not a great or

even a good one, but published

***

IG: https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/

tell me, my love, was it fun

to see me weep to see me bleed

for you

all for you for your love

tell me, was it amusing, to

see your paint

red and blue and red and purple all over

my body your canvas

fingers entwined with the devil, sly

smile full of pearl white teeth

your blood blacker than your words

and then red, red, red, all i see is red

on me on you

on the carpet on the

walls so thick no one

hear my screams

until...until...

it's too late

take me

my lungs my skin my

heart all yours my love ALL YOURS

THAT'S ALL YOU EVER WANTED, ISN'T IT

SO TAKE THEM WITH YOU

RID ME OF THESE SINS THESE MISTAKES THESE

FEELINGS I ONCE CALLED LOVE

NOW DROWNED BY THE GUILT

your phantom touch

all over me all over

the body you once painted your love on

i can feel your caress

your cold, dead breath

on these hands tainted with blood.

your blood

you remember don't you, my love?

that look in your dead dead soulless eyes

those last words you uttered:

"why do you keep playing the victim?"

Why do you keep playing the victim?

We are onto the game you play. You spout hurtful and dehumanizing words online or in person. Minority groups and people who don’t support your political agenda are your favorite targets. You laugh. You swagger. Until someone answers your rant with one of his or her own, or threatens a boycott.

Then, you simply swing into full-scale victimhood:

“I am a victim of ‘cancel culture’ and the thought police,” you scream. “I should be able to say whatever I want and you can’t do a damn thing about it! Free speech!”

Why do you claim you are a victim instead of defending your position?

Do you even know what a victim is? Maybe you need a refresher on the definition. Here is the consensus of several dictionaries:

Victim: (noun) a person who is harmed, injured, or killed

as a result of a crime, accident or other event or action.

(example: victim of violence). Also: a person who is tricked

or cheated (example: victim of a hoax). Also: a creature killed

in a religious sacrifice.

Where do you fit in the definition of “victim”? Certainly, you were not tricked or cheated. Obviously, you were not killed in a religious sacrifice. And you were not hurt or killed in a crime or car crash. So, you must be hanging your hat on being a victim of some “other event or action.”

And you claim that when YOU are criticized, YOU become a victim?

You are talking about words. You assert a right to free speech with no consequences for yourself, yet deny your critics the same right.

If you want to see a victim, look into the fearful or wary eyes of one who has suffered gunshot wounds or seen a family member murdered. Or been the victim of racism. Or domestic terrorism. Or…

So, spare me your crocodile tears. Criticism of your hateful words that inspire violence does not make you a victim.

Your demeaning words place you more in the realm of a victim antonym: an attacker or assailant.

Hey! I just wanted to let everyone know that I am no longer staying away from Prose! (Yeah, it's like, that ridiculous mosquito coming back to disturb your serene sleep ^-^) The exams, which I had been eating away my brains for, were just postponed. And I covered most of the portions too. [Or more like, devoured most of the textbooks :)] I mean, that's bad news for me, yes. But, staying away from the grid any longer doesn't make much sense. So let me try and come to a point-I am back!!!

And that means I might occasionally (more like, frequently) pop up in the notifications. Don't be alarmed! My mental stability, though it was always questionable, has not gone worse (yet ^-^). And the number of notifications that I would have to catch up with have clearly shown that this place was cheerful enough. Maybe lacking a bit, but do not worry, now that I am here, we are about to go crazy! Put on your seatbelts, people. This might be a roller coaster journey! Missed you guys! Love ya!

#nonfiction I mean, of course, it is!

(TRIGGER WARNING: SELF HARM)

They said they could hear her cries.

They said they could see her scars.

They said they could feel her pain.

They said they could smell her blood.

They said they could taste her sorrow.

She said she would sob 'till morning.

She said she would cut 'till she bled.

She said she would pinch 'till she bruised.

She said she would smear red 'till she washed.

She said she would cry 'till she'd made a river.

So I asked, "Why do you keep playing the victim?"

She said nothing.

So I waited for her to speak.

. . .

. . .

. . .

"Playing the victim is how I gain the attention of others."

I never got Origami.

How folding a sheet of paper

could lead to beautiful swans.

I never learned how to do it,

without the paper turning into a mess.

I admire those who make little swans.

Whose paper boats float down the river.

Its an amazing skill.

Just not one

I'll ever have.

Her hands

Slender, soft, smooth

Caress the paper

As she folds

A rectangle then triangle

Precise then torn

Becomes a square

Transformed

Her hands are rough

Hardened and gentle

Crease the square

Angled and layered

Shaped to a pattern

She remembers

So well

Patience required

Her hands misshapen

Joints swollen

Painful

A final inspection

With her mouth she

puffs

Crinkles pop, expand

Origami astounds

Remember

Hands changed by life

Are beautiful with memory

Of all her strife

Her eyes laughed,

They sparkled like diamonds.

We danced hand in hand, laughing together.

Another day, another time, her eyes were not the same.

They filled with hate, they burned like heated red coals.

Her words stung, they burned in my mind like fire.

Yet another day, another time, she came by.

Her attitude changed, her friendliness to me gone.

My heart was hurt, my mind was reeling.

I was warned, she was like origami.

I saw the proof, but refused to believe it.

My eyes watched her change everytime a new person went her way.

She folded, creased, and bent her personality,

To be liked, accepted, and loved by anybody.

I will always remember my tiny basement room. Our cave.

We spent hours, days, weeks - hiding away.

It was not long after it all happened..

After she tried to kill herself,

that we moved in.

You were so tall, and the walls were so low.

But it was perfect. It was what we needed.

A little space to call our own.

But that’s when the changes began. The deepness rolling through your bones.

Death, and almost-death, changes you. I should know.

Trauma. Traumatic events, making you bend and bow.

Folding into your head.

You screamed - “DON’T LOOK AT ME!!”

- and hid under a pile of blankets and pillows.

I wasn’t allowed to touch you sometimes. So fragile, so tender.

Other times, you couldn’t bare not to be held. So delicate and subdued.

You melted into yourself, as I mothered and cared for you.

Holding you while you cried. Bathing together in a smoke-filled tub.

Loving you, even when you became manic, and depressive,

needing every part of me.

I poured my light over and through you, completly.

Sometimes, it feels so unfair; that I carried you through this, and myself;

and you still left me.

You couldn’t handle me.

You got better. Well, maybe?

You got different.

There was a space she made that night, inside of you,

that I just couldn’t fill.

I just can’t fill.

I’m proud of you, really, for finally giving yourself this time.

For trying to pour your own light into yourself.

But it still hurts, I’m still in pain.

I hold no blame. This is life. This is love.

But it still hurts.

and I’m still in pain.

Sleeping on our floor bed, playing toss the ball in the hole.

We tried so many things, took up so many hobbies in that room.

We would trapes around charity shops, collecting games, and things to do.

Dim music, and reading in softly lit corners.

Blanket forts and talking about the deepest parts of ourselves.

The silence, that was always comfortable.

I loved it all. Every part of it.

Even our darkest moments.

It was real. It was us.

Our foundations were strong, but the land on which we chose to build,

was soft and low-slung. Even the people with the greenest fingers would have struggled to grow something lasting here.

One of my fondest memories, is making origami.

I watched, as you’d chew your tounge with concentration.

You were so good at it, and I was terrible.

Your brain worked like that- intricately and steps ahead.

You showed me how. Step-by-step, we would fold together.

Once a teacher, always a teacher. You had such patience.

We sat for hours, in our glowing cave, folding, crimping, crumpling;

crumbling together.

You were so delicate. Just like those pieces of paper.

Once you make a fold, you can’t unfold it. Well, you can, but you will always see that first fold. It will always be there, visible to the trained eye.

And I suppose that’s like a trauma brain -

once the trauma has been made, you can’t undo it.

You can flatten it, and it can be unfolded, but that dent,

that dent, will always be there.

You will always see the trauma, in some form.

It will change, and lessen, but it will always be there.

And that is why, I can wish you the best.

That is why I can understand.

Why I can let you go, so peacefully.

Why I can’t hold you back.

I have to let you find your spark again.

I have to let you grow.

To find a new groove, that fits this era of your life.

Maybe one day, we will find eachother again.

Maybe we can find new land, to place our foundations and build.

But maybe not.

I know that we will see eachother on the otherside, when we are older and wiser.

A spark reignited in us both.

We will come full-circle, as you so fondly say.

Just in a different way.

So, until then,

I will hold my poorly folded penguin, so close to my heart,

and remember the sweetness of our love,

the sweetness of our possibilities.

Always.